Devil Town
by TwistedGoth
Summary: AU. As the first great war looms on the horizon, a wanted Gilbert does all he can to hold on to Ludwig. If he fails to do so, by war or his own choices, then there is only one solution: follow behind, using his criminal skills to keep his brother safe. And a beleaguered Roderich can only try to keep Ludwig safe from Gilbert. Prussia x Germany, Austria x Germany, Aus x Hun
1. Prologue

**A/N **: I have updated the warning section, since I now have a better sense of where everything is going. **ALSO**, everything has been (is being, rather) **TOTALLY RE-WRITTEN**! This is important. XD

**Warnings!** : AU. Human characters. Set in first World War era Europe. Language, violence, drug use, war, angst, arson, murder, angst, lots of boring diplomatic stuff, and did I mention angst angst angst? Plenty of misery for everyone!

**Pairings** : Main pairing is Prussia x Germany, with a side of Austria x Germany, and Austria x Hungary. Other characters featured are : Italy, Romano, England, America, fem!Japan, Canada, Russia, Rome, and _possibly_ Lithuania and/or Finland.

This is not so much an action/adventure/war story as much as it is a chronology about everyday life for those involved, so it will probably not appeal to thrillseekers. Lol.

A note on Hungary : I am aware that the creator gave her the name 'Elizabeta'. However... This is an incorrect form of the Hungarian 'Elisabeth', the correct form of which is 'Erzsébet'.

Also also : Please do not be offended by any racist and/or sexist happenings in this should they occur. I mean, seriously. It's the early 1900s. You know.

Thanks for reading, and drop a line should you feel so inclined!

It should be immediately obvious which chapters have been re-written and which have not.

* * *

**DEVIL TOWN**

* * *

Prologue

Gilbert had never been patient.

Actually, patience usually became his downfall, one way or the other, and maybe he had too short a fuse or too bad a temper, but _waiting_ just made his blood pressure rise like nothing else.

Waiting.

Waiting.

He couldn't stand it.

Clenching his fingers together in an attempt to push down the burning ire in his chest, he stared morosely across the table, the oblivious scratching of Roderich's pen driving him steadily further to the breaking point. Roderich, possibly taking much delight in his annoyance, raised his pen up, dipped it intentionally slowly into the ink, peering up for a fraction of a second through lidded eyes.

His tongue was poking out, in what was obviously glee.

Gilbert furrowed his brow, and began to drum his fingers on the desk.

Roderich started to scribble again, biting down on his lower lip as if deep in thought. But he wasn't _thinking_. He was trying not to laugh. Gilbert could see it, just in the height of his brow.

Bastard.

He cleared his throat, agitated, but Roderich either did not hear, or did not care, (probably the latter, he thought in annoyance) and did not look up, carrying on with his writing quite merrily.

Waiting.

"How much longer?" he inquired, tone less than polite, and finally, Roderich granted him the briefest of glances.

"Not long now," came the airy drawl, and Gilbert sighed.

This was not exactly how he had been intending to spend the better part of the teenage years of his life, stuck in a house that was not his own with a man who was not his father but _acted_ like he was, in a place that was not his home and with people who were not his family.

This was not the grand dream that he had set out to find.

Not even _close_.

With another dejected sigh, he thunked his head against the table, making Roderich's pen slip, thinking back on the events that had led him here in the first place.

Six years ago.

How quickly he had dug himself into a hole.

He had started life in an excellent position, born to parents of considerable wealth and power in the Kingdom of Prussia. Well-bred. High-class. Influential. He had the best schooling, the best tutors, the best house, the best of _everything_.

Anything he'd wanted.

_That_ life, however, had always held little interest for him, preferring the exciting life of the outside world rather than the boring existence of a rich kid, and when his father had told him at the age of thirteen that he was old enough to be sent off to a haughty boarding school in the lower part of Bavaria, he had set aside his heritage and slunk through a window in the dead of night.

The streets were much more interesting to him, at first, and when he realized that out in the alleys there were no _rules_, he became entranced. No tutors hovering over him, no overwhelming expectations, no path set before him. This was his calling, he was sure, and he learned quickly the art of pick-pocketing, as well as the art of lying, which was sometimes harder.

He had felt free.

Were his parents looking for him?

Maybe.

He hadn't cared much, then, and carried on with his dishonest outings, wandering further and further south until he had finally left Prussia behind. The years passed, one and then two, and he joined and dominated local gangs, leaving them behind for a new one when he grew bored. He commandeered abandoned building to his convenience, he took what he wanted without asking questions, he spoke without thinking, he leapt before he looked, and was completely comfortable in this lifestyle until he had turned sixteen.

Maybe he had been tired, or maybe he had been homesick, or maybe he had just been _lonely_, but whatever the reason, he had tried to return home. Weeks and weeks of wandering back up north, and when he finally stepped back into that old homeland of Prussia that he loved, he quickly discovered (with horror)that his house was no longer his own, and light snooping had uncovered the news of his parents untimely demise.

Oh.

His house was no longer home. A new family lived there now.

He had cried, just a little, and returned south from whence he came.

Months later, he reached Württemberg with sore feet and a sense of melancholy, and there he had caught sight of an elegant man, walking so loosely and obliviously that Gilbert had practically seen the proverbial 'x marks the spot' above his head. He kept turning this way and that, this way and that, here and there, back and forth, and it didn't take Gilbert too long to realize he was lost.

Ha. Easy.

Sneaking up stealthily behind was his specialty, and he had _thought_ that he was home free when he liberated the wallet from the disoriented man's pocket.

He had been mistaken, and the man had turned on him with incredible reflexes, grabbing his wrist in a surprisingly vice-like grip.

A moment of silence, and disbelief on both of their parts. The man's for being robbed, and Gilbert's for being caught.

That was a first.

He tried anything and everything to pry himself loose, jumping, flailing, tugging, wrenching, even trying to bite, and yet somehow he still failed to extract himself, and he almost cried again, thinking for sure that the man would take him straight to the police.

And it would be game over.

However, the man had then made a curious proposition, and Gilbert had immediately hated his upscale, haughty Vienna accent.

He'd had enough of classy accents back home.

'Are you homeless?' the man had asked, and Gilbert nodded.

'Are you hungry?' he had asked, and Gilbert nodded again.

'Come with me,' he had said, and Gilbert, seeing no other option and relieved to be free of jail, obeyed.

He had been _lonely_, even if he'd have gone to his grave denying it.

It turned out that the obnoxious Austrian's equally obnoxious name was Roderich, and he was in Württemberg for diplomatic reasons (an ambassador or some such), and his temporary lodgings had become an asylum (of sorts) for misguided youths.

In exchange for menial tasks.

Well, no one could ever accuse him of blowing his budget. Why hire maids when you can just take in a few runts?

How...thrifty.

Gilbert had immediately put his foot down before Roderich and refused to do any sort of cleaning, and Roderich had shrugged a shoulder. That was okay, he said, he had a little Italian waif who did that. And, Gilbert had added, he had absolutely no cooking skills. But that was okay, too, Roderich had said, he had a Hungarian girl for that. Gilbert had eyed a stack of paperwork, and, through narrowed eyes, had outright refused to pencil-push.

Roderich had not responded, and the next day, Gilbert found himself writing and stamping the most boring of legalese, and cried a little more.

But it was alright, he guessed, and at any rate, he had food and lodgings, and he became fast friends with the Hungarian tomboy, Erzsébet, who was always happy to sneak out and cause mayhem with him.

He liked to pick on the Italian child, Feliciano, who was always laughing and always smiling. Nothing malicious or harmful; sometimes he'd spill something on the floor that Feliciano had just cleaned just to see his face of chagrin, but he always helped him mop it up afterwards. Sometimes he hid the broom or the duster, just to see Feliciano running around in a panic. Just little things.

He liked them.

He liked Erzsébet. He _really_ liked Erzsébet.

She was interesting. Fun. Outgoing. Bold. Not like the classy, dainty girls he had grown up knowing.

She tapped on his window some nights, long after everyone had gone to bed, and they wandered the city streets looking for trouble.

He liked her boyish laugh. He liked the color of her hair. He liked that she was older than him. He liked her hands.

He settled into this new life, and being around Erzsébet made being around Roderich somewhat tolerable.

Somewhat.

Roderich _really_ began to rub him the wrong way as more years passed, and to his chagrin, Erzsébet had grown more distant from himself and closer to Roderich.

How the hell had _that_ happened? He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment the winds had shifted.

Maybe it had been the day that Roderich had come home with a bunch of flowers. _He'd_ never given her flowers before, because he'd always assumed that she wouldn't like them, as crass as she was.

But she had fawned over them with a red face and eager hands. Roderich had beamed away, and they had just stared at each other.

And after that, Erzsébet really only had eyes for Roderich.

Coulda made him sick.

She didn't tap on his window anymore at night. She didn't sneak out into the streets with him. She didn't even seek him out anymore.

She just looked at Roderich from the corner of her eye, and the expression on her face was strange.

Her hands compulsively smoothed down her dress whenever Roderich was near.

They passed each other and sometimes went in circles, and sometimes Roderich bumped into tables when Erzsébet was walking by. Sometimes Erzsébet let food burn, as she stared off dreamily into whatever direction Roderich had gone.

Ugh.

It was then that Gilbert had realized that she had only ever considered him a friend, nothing more, and before he knew it Roderich and Erzsébet were engaged, and then, almost to the day he had turned eighteen, Roderich had brought home someone new.

Another turning of the tide.

This time it was a little German boy, whose parents he had either lost or had been taken from him, with hair so blond it was almost white, and piercing ice-blue eyes.

Gilbert would always remember the first time he'd walked through the door.

Quiet. Shy. Frightened.

Lost.

He did not speak to them at first, clinging fiercely to Roderich's hand and shuffling his feet as he tried to use Roderich as a human shield, and no matter how they pressed, he did not seem to know where he had come from or why.

Erzsébet had come forward and taken his hand, and led him into the living room where she had sat him down on the floor, kneeling with him and running her hands through his dirty hair.

He'd smiled, then.

Gilbert watched him, hands on hips, and he remembered Roderich saying, 'Found him looking through the trash for food.'

The boy just sat there with Erzsébet, and despite how dirty he was and how many holes his clothes had, how dark the circles under his eyes and how weak his frame, when she raised her hands up in the air, he did the same, placing his tiny palms against hers, and engaged in her patty-cake game.

Gilbert had fallen in love with him then. Poor little thing.

Once Erzsébet could finally be pried away from the kid, Feliciano quickly took her place.

Feliciano and the kid were about the same age and, as such, they took to each other instantly.

Inseparable.

Feliciano took the boy's hand, and walked around the house with him, leaning in close to his side and sometimes throwing an arm around his shoulder and pulling him in for a hug.

Roderich and Gilbert watched them interact, and Roderich held up a hand to his chin, thoughtfully.

Later that day, when he'd eaten, they tried to pry more information out of the child.

But he wasn't very helpful. He did not know his own name, and whenever they asked where he was from, he only shook his head, blue eyes perpetually calm and sad, and then he would just turn and wander off into Feliciano's waiting arms.

Huh. Wonder where he'd come from...

Well, he was very easy to like, that was for sure, so quiet and calm and easy to please, obeying without question and always unfailingly polite. Weird little kid. Gilbert woke up in the mornings, and found that he thought about him more and more every day.

And after only a week, the little boy was all he _did_ think about. He _adored_ him. And he'd never adored anything in his life.

Even Roderich, always looking for free help, did not make him earn his keep, taking him under his wing without receiving anything in return. Probably just because he'd found him in such dire straights.

Hell, even _Roderich_ had a heart, somewhere under all that cravat.

At any rate, Gilbert found that the little German effectively filled the void left behind by Erzsébet, and then some.

He had even picked out a name for him; Ludwig, after his father.

Together (even though 'together' kind of stung to say) he and Roderich created him a family. They made up a birthday, which they could not completely agree upon; Roderich thought he looked like December, while Gilbert saw May. They made up an age, which they could also not completely agree upon; Roderich said eight, Gilbert, nine.

And they could absolutely not agree on a last name, both of them fighting over the right to christen him with their own.

Ludwig Edelstein?

Pssh, yeah right, over his dead body!

Erzsébet, playing peacemaker, said he did not need one, at least not for now.

Fine. Let him pick one when he was older. (Of course, Gilbert was confident, he would choose the much more regal name of Beilschmidt.)

Last name aside, Ludwig fell into the pace of things nicely, and began to speak. His voice was soft, quiet, and tranquil.

Gilbert had grown even fonder of him as the months passed, and started to call him 'brother'. Ha. He'd always wanted a little brother.

Even back home.

Ludwig seemed to enjoy being called 'little brother', breaking into a bashful smile and grasping his shirt in his hands, face red and eyes wide in excitement as Gilbert reached down to ruffle his hair. Ludwig even laughed, sometimes, when Gilbert chased him around the house in circles before finally tackling him (gently), writhing and kicking to get loose as Gilbert tickled him mercilessly.

Stuff real brothers would do.

He _loved_ Ludwig.

But, even so...

Being so fond of Ludwig had its downfalls. Or maybe he was just too goddamn jealous. Because, God, it stung like a knife whenever he wanted to be with Ludwig and Ludwig wanted to be with someone else.

It wasn't Ludwig's fault; little kids had such short attention spans, and Ludwig always wanted to see what everyone was up to.

Mostly it was Feliciano, which wasn't really so bad, since it was kinda cute to see them sitting before the fireplace, hand in hand and crooning to each other, heads bumping together and cheek pressing cheek. _Really_ cute, actually, and sometimes Gilbert would sit behind them on the couch and smile away when Feliciano suddenly leaned over and kissed Ludwig's cheek in a gesture of sweet adoration.

Ludwig just blushed.

That was fine.

Sometimes it was Erzsébet, which was okay, he supposed. She hovered over him like a mother would, tending cuts and bruises and soothing away bad dreams, and she would smooth back his hair when it came loose, straightening his clothes when they were disheveled and sometimes spitting in her hand to wipe a smudge from his cheek.

Ludwig yelped, and tried to pull away in mortification.

That was okay.

But a lot of the time, more than he would like, it was Roderich.

And oh, _oh_ God, he _hated_ Roderich. He hated Roderich. So it was the worst feeling imaginable, to see Ludwig trailing behind Roderich like a puppy, smiling up at him like he was looking at God himself.

It _hurt_.

He told himself, over and over again, that it was only because it had been Roderich that had found Ludwig, alone on the streets. Roderich had saved him. Roderich had brought him home. Roderich had given him a second chance.

But Gilbert loved him like a brother. Shouldn't that have meant more?

It was disappointing, any second that Ludwig was absorbed in Roderich, even if it was something simple or something fleeting, and it turned Gilbert even more against Roderich, which he hadn't even thought was _possible_.

Roderich, who had first taken Erzsébet, and now was taking Ludwig.

Couldn't Roderich let him have anything?

Any and all loyalty that he had _ever_ had for Roderich from the day he had given him lodging dissolved the _second_ that he had seen Roderich sitting at the piano with Ludwig one day, his slender hands on top of Ludwig's and laughing aloud as they plinked away at the keys.

Ludwig was smiling.

Roderich leaned down, voice cooing away in Ludwig's ear like a proud parent, as he took up Ludwig's tiny hands within his own and said, so eagerly and cheerfully, 'Here, come on! Let's play a Chopin, now!'

Beaming, Roderich lifted Ludwig's hands, positioned them on the keys, and they started to play away.

Ludwig was so excited to be 'playing' on his own that he was squirming.

They sat together for hours, laughing together. When they were finished, they stood up, and Ludwig looked up at Roderich and threw up his arms into the air. Roderich tilted his head to the side, and then reached down, grabbing Ludwig around the waist and hauling him up into arms, squeezing him to his chest in an enthusiastic hug.

Erzsébet watched them, and the expression on her face was no longer strange; Gilbert recognized it now.

Love.

Roderich and Erzsébet and Ludwig. They would have made a quaint, beautiful family.

And that left no place for Gilbert.

That day, Gilbert had decided that Roderich was no longer an acquaintance. He was an _enemy_.

He hated Roderich.

It was for this reason when, the next spring, Roderich announced that he and Erzsébet would be returning to Vienna indefinitely for their wedding, Gilbert had not been upset.

Quite the contrary.

He was glad to see Roderich go, wouldn't even _miss_ the son of a bitch, and if he wanted her so badly, then he could take Erzsébet too, and Feliciano and Ludwig too. Let them be a pretty family out on their own.

Who cared? Good riddance. He didn't need a family.

He'd do fine on his own.

Plans were made. Dates set.

And that led him back to the present, as he sat here, head slapped down onto Roderich's desk and muttering to himself as he rode out the very last moments in Roderich's home.

Everything, all of it, had led to this moment.

He was glad. He wouldn't miss Roderich.

They weren't leaving until the end of the year, but Gilbert had decided to step out early. The sooner the better.

"Done?"

"Not yet," Roderich drawled.

"Hurry it up, won't'cha? Oh my God, I'm _so_ glad! I hate this place _so_ much."

"That's great," Roderich supplied, patiently, still scratching away, looking about as relieved as Gilbert felt.

It would appear that the hatred was mutual.

"Just another few moments, and you'll be home free."

"Good."

Now, Roderich glanced up at him with a distasteful eye, adding, "Where will you go?"

"None of your business," he immediately snipped, but when Roderich's eyes narrowed into slits and the pen creaked in his hand, Gilbert bit down his attitude, foundering, and mumbled, "Back to Prussia, I guess."

"What will you do there? Ah, for work, I mean?"

"Dunno."

"I can probably set you up with something."

"No thanks," he snorted, visions of more paperwork filling his head, and as proud as he was, the last thing he ever wanted was help from Roderich. "I can find something just fine on my own."

He smiled casually, but Roderich's face only fell into an alarming seriousness, and he squirmed in his seat when Roderich set down his pen and leaned forward, hands clasped in front of him very formally, murmuring, "This is serious. I have a great request to make of you, and I need to know if you'll be able to handle it."

"What is it?" he asked, cautiously, and Roderich looked around the room, almost guiltily.

Oh, God. He had a suspicion.

"Well. Ah. As you know, we'll be returning to Vienna, and I don't know if we'll ever be coming back here, and well... Erzsébet has requested, actually, ah, _demanded_ that Feliciano accompany us. He's all alone you know. Doesn't have anywhere to go. I can handle that, I guess, but... Ah. What I mean to say is..."

Gilbert could only shift anxiously, knowing what was coming.

"Wherever you're going, you have to take Ludwig with you."

Silence.

The first basic, instinctive reaction he had was to say, 'Of course I'll take him—he's my little brother!' The first thought was to take Ludwig back home and to sit him down and tell him, 'See, Roderich didn't want you, so he's not all that great! I'm the one that loves you!'

His first thought.

And yet...

And yet it still hurt to the see the way that Ludwig smiled up at Roderich, the way he followed after him whenever he was home, the way Roderich fawned over him, and oh _God_, he hated Roderich so much.

He was too proud for his own good. Just too _proud_. Too stubborn. Too combative. Any chance to fight with Roderich, any at all, was worth it. He was too proud to admit how much it hurt that Ludwig admired Roderich more than himself, so let Ludwig go with Roderich.

Who needed 'em?

Roderich sat there, staring at him, waiting.

Gilbert let his frustration take charge.

"_No way_," he cried, leaping to his feet so fast that he knocked his chair backwards in an attempt to make a scene, "No way! How could you even _ask_ me that? Aren't _you_ the one that brought him home? Take him with ya, why don't ya?"

Roderich stood too, palms on his desk, taking Gilbert's bait like he always did.

A bristling, bespectacled, screeching, wide-eyed ball of fury.

"You—_You_! How can you deny him like that? Aren't _you _the one always running about saying, 'my brother' this, 'my brother' that? That you would even take him and stick him into the middle of our own personal resentments! Have you no shame? I ask this one simple thing of you—"

The _audacity_!

"_You're_ the one that brought him into this, you big _idiot_!" he screeched back, as he stomped his foot, and Roderich looked absolutely _appalled_ that he had _dared_ to raise his voice to him.

Pompous ass.

"Why d'ya even ask at all? All ya had to do was just _take_ him! Why even bother askin' me? He looks up to you doesn't he, so why don't you just take him to Vienna and raise him yourself and teach him to be a snobby prick just like _you_!"

Roderich's mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out, looking more like a landed fish than an indignant ambassador.

Helpless sputtering.

"Y-you! How dare you! Why, you! You! I've—I've never _been _so angry, you— I can't even think of a word awful enough to _describe_ you! As much as Ludwig loves you, and you'd toss him aside like so much trash!"

A twinge of hurt.

But he quickly shoved it aside, because Roderich was mistaken.

Ludwig loved Roderich. Not _him_.

"Yeah, maybe I'm awful, but so be it! _You're_ the one that wanted Ludwig, so keep him! Just _keep_ him! I'm no one's big brother! I could never take care of him on my own, and why would I even _want_ to? He's just be a damn burden."

Roderich's smooth, long-fingered hand flew up to his chest, aghast.

"_Burden_?" Roderich's voice was a steadily rising shriek. "What have _you_ done for him? _I've_ taken care of him this whole time, all you do is talk, but you're never there when he needs you! Why don't you try to take some responsibility for once? Ha! Some brother _you'd_ ever be! Just _forget_ it! Forget the whole goddamn thing! I don't even know what I was _thinking_, askin' you to take him! That I could _ever_ leave Ludwig with you!"

"So _don't_!" Gilbert retorted, angrily, arms flying out to his sides in a show of aggression, "Don't! Take him!"

"I _will_!"

"Good! I didn't want him _anyway_!"

"_Good_! He's better off without you!"

Gilbert opened his mouth, to say he couldn't even guess what, but before the confrontation could escalate further (possibly into a physical altercation), a voice from the doorway interrupted them.

A soft, calm whisper.

"Don't fight because of me."

They both turned to the door, mouths hanging open in shock and horror, and in a second all belligerence had fled, and Roderich's face fell like the sun had been extinguished.

Gilbert's shoulders slumped.

Ludwig stood in the doorframe, arms loose at his sides. Who knew how long he'd been standing there.

Oh.

Oh, _no_.

Ludwig shifted his weight from one small foot to the other, and tried to put on a brave smile as he met Gilbert's eyes with a high chin. "That's okay, big brother. I'll be alright on my own!"

A horrible silence.

Gilbert was too ashamed to even try to utter a response.

Ludwig straightened up as stiff as a board, squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, the very vision of dignity (even so young), and then turned on his heel and walked away.

He left behind a shameful dread.

Oh, he hadn't wanted _that_.

Not that.

"_Goddammit_," Roderich suddenly cursed, breaking the silence, and it was with pursed lips and a very stern brow that he reached down and grabbed up a stack of papers from his desk, walking around and shoving them angrily into Gilbert's chest. "Here!" he spat, "This is your freedom. Take it and go. If you want the job I set up, then go to the address. Or don't. I don't care. I don't ever want to see you again."

With that, he stalked towards the door and left, slamming it behind him so hard that pictures fell right off the wall, and Gilbert knew he had reached a point of finality. Grabbing his bag off the floor, he trudged out of the house forever, agitated and guilty.

Back in the streets again. Same old.

Alone.

He made his way back to Prussia, morose and disappointed in himself. He would _never_ have said those things if he had known Ludwig was listening...

He hadn't _meant_ it.

Roderich just brought out the worst in him. Hadn't been Ludwig's fault.

Well, too late now.

He pushed on.

Besides, maybe Roderich was right. Maybe Ludwig was better off without him. What he did know about being a guardian? Ludwig would be safe and happy and cared for in Vienna, where he would have a 'mother' and a 'father' in Erzsébet and Roderich, and a better 'brother' in Feliciano.

Better off.

Trying to put his past behind him, Gilbert buried it all and returned to Prussia tall and proud, chin held as high as it always had been. The paper that Roderich had given him was in the trash before it had even been read. He had his own methods of making money, and Roderich, God bless him, had taught him one very valuable skill : how to speak and read legal jargon, and he could (and would) use that to his advantage.

Manipulation was really the only true skill he _had_.

Ha. Good enough.

Thus, he formed his own highly successful, and completely illegal, business, posing here and there as a lawyer, getting the money up front, and leaving his 'clients' high and dry in the court.

Roderich's smooth tongue had taught him the eloquence needed for such a venture.

It was actually a really lucrative 'business', more than he had ever really thought possible, and yet no matter how many people he swindled, or lives he ruined, or the beautiful house he bought, the expensive clothes he wore, the fine things he owned, he could not push away the gnawing guilt in his chest.

Ludwig was always on his mind.

Regret.

He had _loved_ Ludwig, and even so had let his goddamn pride get in the way.

Stupid.

He wandered the streets of Berlin sometimes, watching people pass by with half-hearted interest, and occasionally it seemed that he would catch sight of a little boy with platinum hair. He turned tail and chased after quickly with hammering heart, but in the end, it was always only a look-alike.

False alarm.

Spring faded to fall, fall to winter, and he found himself once again trudging out in the streets, pants wet with snow and shoes muddy. He passed the little shops, hands in his pockets and watching the white sky dreamily, bumping into people and not even bothering to say 'sorry'. A usual occurrence. What was unusual, however, was the sudden burst of light that caught his eye. He looked over instinctively, like he always did, and felt his heart leap in his chest, like it always did.

But this time...

Out on the corner, alone and looking completely lost, was a little child, skinny and thinly-clothed and dirty, looking back and forth as though waiting for someone to come to his rescue. Dazed. Confused.

Alone.

Gilbert could not ignore the resemblance (oh, God, what a resemblance!), but found that his feet were frozen still as he readied himself for another disappointment.

Couldn't be.

...could it?

He watched from afar, as the little boy walked unsteadily this way, stopped, looked around with a tilted head of confusion, and then walked back down the other way, and repeated the same actions.

He just stood there.

People passed by, not sparing him a glance. Homeless street children were all too common in Berlin.

Gilbert waited, breathlessly, and finally, mercifully, the child looked his way.

His heart jolted. A burst of adrenaline.

He'd never forget that face. He'd never forget those eyes.

He'd never forget Ludwig.

Even though it seemed so _impossible_, he could not help himself, and when he found his feet he darted out into the street, dodging vehicles and horses and people and leaping over to the other side as fast as he could.

"Ludwig? H-_hey_! Ludwig!"

But the child did not look his way, not even a glance, and he thought for a second that he was _mistaken_, that perhaps this was not Ludwig after all. His heart dropped. A horrible, horrible moment of devastation.

"Ludwig?"

He ran up, and when he was close enough, he reached out and grabbed the child by the arm, whirling him around, and there was no more doubt.

Lightening.

This was Ludwig.

Ludwig.

Wait. _Ludwig_?

_How_?

"Oh my _God_," he cried, falling to his knees before the child, his heart racing so fast he was sure he would faint. "Ludwig? What are you _doing_ here? Did you walk here?" The child did not respond, looking at him with such confusion, and Gilbert grabbed his shoulders, shaking him as hard as he dared. "Did you? Did you come all the way from Württemberg by yourself? Are you _okay_?"

Ludwig only stared at him, pale eyes wide with confusion, and finally he spoke, that familiar old voice soft and calm, "Ludwig... Is that my name?"

What?

Gilbert fell back, aghast, and noticed for the first time the trickle of blood creeping down the side of Ludwig's face. Pulling himself forward, he grabbed wan Ludwig by the collar and yanked him in, forcing his head down so that he could part his damp hair and examine. A rush of panic came when he saw the gash underneath the blond.

"What _happened_?" he finally whispered, horrified, but Ludwig only shook his head, a strange look upon his face.

Like nothing was out of the ordinary.

"I don't remember." He was far too calm for Gilbert's liking, and smiled palely when he added, "I just remember coming here for..._something_." He scrunched his face in concentration, trying to recall a memory that was fleeing him. "Something. I woke up here yesterday. ...did I come to the right place?"

"Whaddya mean? Huh? Did you... How'd you get here? Don't you remember?"

Ludwig shook his head.

"Why'd you come here?"

A shrug.

"Where's Roderich? Huh? Why'd you leave Roderich? Why'd he let you go off on your own?"

A silence, and then Ludwig gawked at him through those pale eyelashes, and he whispered, "Who's that?"

Gilbert choked for a second, and finally stood back up.

His head hurt all of a sudden.

Who's _that_?

Good God, had he hit his head that hard?

Ludwig's hands were scraped and bloodied. Had he fallen? From where? How?

"You've...been out in the snow all this time?"

Ludwig nodded serenely, and, feeling his heart bursting in his chest, Gilbert reached down and took his hand.

"Come on. Let's go home. You hungry?"

Ludwig nodded and walked along, allowing Gilbert to lead him off with complete and unwavering trust, just like had to Roderich not so long ago.

Ludwig, so good-natured.

Glancing down at him every so often, keeping Ludwig's hand very tightly within his own, Gilbert felt the first burst of ego in his chest, and smiled.

So what if Roderich had saved Ludwig first?

Ha! Ludwig had followed Roderich around after that, looking up at him like he was a savior and a hero, because it had been Roderich who had found him.

Well, then, this was his chance. Ludwig would look up to him now.

What a feeling!

And what was more; Ludwig had not wound up in Prussia by accident. No way! Ludwig had _followed_ him here, seeking him out. Ludwig had left Roderich behind and came looking for Gilbert.

Maybe Ludwig had loved him all along, after all.

He fully intended to make up for his mistakes, even if Ludwig didn't remember the awful words he had said.

He'd spoil the kid rotten.

He swore it.

As the snow began to fall again, he squeezed Ludwig's hand tightly, and the child looked up at him quite happily.

"Who are you?" Ludwig asked suddenly, and Gilbert's smile broke into a grin.

"I'm your big brother."


	2. 1909

Chapter 1

**1909**

Berlin was quiet in the dawn.

Not a sound.

The weather was fair, mild and moist, a thin sheen of dew covering the grass and windows of the closed shops. The smell of spring was sweet in the air, hovering over the quiet suburb that lay on the outskirts of the vast city. There was no bustle here. No crowded streets. No merchants. No crime.

Just a thick, impenetrable fog.

Everyone was still asleep.

Tranquility.

But the calm was suddenly and steadily broken by frantic footsteps racing across the pavement, their sounds echoing in the empty streets with an eerie foreboding. After all, the only people walking around at this hour were either the police or their prey, and when the figure of a man began to appear through the thick mist, clutching his chest and panting so hard that he looked near collapse, it was obvious that he was the latter.

Criminals were nothing new in Berlin.

Probably just a part of the wide underground world, surfacing for air.

He ran as fast as he could, boots thunking heavily on the street as he flew along, desperate and determined, and he passed by and then backtracked towards an alley. Skidding around the sharp corner, he plunged into the shadows, as behind him came the thundering of boots and muffled cries.

In the midst of the chaos, a dog was barking.

A police dog, and it was on this man's trail, tugging its master along forcefully, nose plastered to the ground.

But the fleeing man was no stranger to these chases, and watched from the darkness as the marching police bolted right by him, following the dog dutifully.

The footsteps faded.

Knowing he had only a second, he waited for the right time and then slipped out, going back from whence he came. As soon as he emerged from the shadows, he broke into a full sprint as the ferocious barking fade in the distance, and he ran so fast and so hard that sometimes both of his feet were up in the air at the same time.

Even though he was retreating, he was still victorious, and even through his helpless panting, he was still smiling.

"_Ha_," he gasped aloud, pulling his coat tight against him as he struggled for breath and kept on running, "Dumb..._mutt_!"

Dumb cops.

Hadn't ever caught him.

Never would.

As the cobbled streets of Berlin were left behind, he slowed his pace into a jog when he came into the sight of a small, well-tended, sleeping community. He wiped his brow, looking back over his shoulder just in case. He didn't see anyone, or hear anyone; that was good.

Slinking under the hanging branches of a willow, he leaned against the trunk, reaching deftly into his coat with sure fingers as his chest heaved in exhaustion.

Pulling out a package, he opened the top, just enough to thumb through the bills inside.

"Not bad," he uttered lowly to himself, and with a triumphant snort, he carried on.

His shirt was soaked through with the mist of the air, and sweat. Beads of it ran down the sides of his neck.

Running on, creeping through the well-groomed yards, head low and crouched down, he had barely made it halfway to his destination before a howl jolted him out of his sense of security. That familiar old bark of triumph.

At having a scent.

Shuddering, he knew that he had lost his head-start, and the dog (maybe not so dumb) was hot on his heels. He burst into another mad dash, flying into a small field surrounded by trees.

High grass, covered in dew.

On the other side of this field sat a tall, solid house, ornately carved columns looming in the pale light of the morning. It was beautiful; antique tile on the roof, sleek wooden porch, steppingstones leading to the front, climbing rose bushes overtaking the exterior in all the right places, trimmed hedges and clipped trees.

But all roses have thorns, and this seemingly charming home was the mask behind which this man hid.

The values of the times had always saved his ass before.

That a criminal could never live in such a place.

The second he closed that door behind him, there was no longer any chance of anyone suspecting him a criminal.

But hell—he had to make it there first.

He made it out of the field and staggered to the steps of the grand house, and when he looked over his shoulder, he could see the blurry outline of the police in the background.

The low, guttural growling of the dog.

Now he was nervous, something he didn't feel often, and when he reached into his pocket to grab his key, he succeeded only in fumbling it straight to the ground. The clink of the brass on the wood startled him, and he fell to his knees, grappling around blindly.

It was still too dim to really see.

The sun hadn't yet risen.

He groped, the nervousness ever rising. His fingers finally brushed it, and salvation was _close_...

...and then he accidentally pushed it, and it slipped into the crack of a loose board.

Gone, like that.

"Aw—aw _shit_," he hissed in disbelief, but he could not spare another moment; he could hear the sound of their boots in the grass, wet and heavy, and had to make a decision.

Did he bang on the door and risk giving himself away? Or did he make a break for it, and try to come back later?

He twitched anxiously, but he was neither brave nor dexterous enough to try another desperado run. He wouldn't make it ten yards. Pulling himself to his feet, he threw himself against the wood, bringing down his fists as he screeched, as loud as he dare, "Ludwig! _Ludwig_! Let me in!"

Silence.

He waited, and banged again.

"Ludwig!"

There was no stir from within the house, and he panicked.

Ludwig, the little bastard, was a heavy sleeper, like a fuckin' rock. What if he couldn't wake him?

He'd be done in, right in front of his own damn house.

He pounded again.

"Ludwig! _Come on_!"

Nothing.

He softened his voice subconsciously, as though gentle coaxing would somehow make the door open faster, crooning, "Babe! Please hurry up! Ludwig! I need you to open the _door_!"

His heart started lurching.

But still there was nothing, and the barking was growing louder, and he finally gave in to his desperation, backing up and bringing his shoulder into the door as hard as he could in a futile attempt to break it open, crying, "Ludwig! _Goddammit_, open the fucking _door_ you son of a _bitch_!"

He rammed the door again, and again, and again, but the heavy wood held fast.

The barking was ever closer.

Was this really to be his end?

On his own front porch?

What a way to go...

He sank against the door, spent, and just when he thought his reign was over, a click caught his ear and the door creaked open, barely an inch. A piercing blue eye peeked through, and Gilbert grabbed at the handle, feeling salvation return.

Oh, thank God!

"Let me _in_," he hissed, as he tried to push through, but the chain was still in place, and he felt his frustration grow. "Unlock the door, _Ludwig_!"

"What are you doing?" came a groggy whisper, and he shook the handle angrily.

"The goddamn cops are coming, ya big dummy! Open up!"

The blue eye widened. "What? What's going on? Is someone in trouble?"

"Yeah! _Me_!"

"Why are they looking for you? What's wrong with your hair?"

"None of your _business_!"

"Well...don't bring them _here_!"

Wha—_what_?

Little bastard.

He lost all patience, and slammed his fists against the doorframe, shrieking, "_LUDWIG_! _Open the fucking door_!"

Ludwig did, _finally_, and he scrambled inside as fast as he could, bolting the lock behind as his chest burst with adrenaline. He looked through the peephole, and when the figures passed by without incident, searching now by sight, he heaved a great sigh of relief.

Oh, man. That was kinda close.

The silence of the dark house was broken by a quiet, frightened whisper.

"What's happening, Gilbert? Are you okay?"

Turning suddenly, Gilbert crossed his arms across his chest, wine eyes blazing through stringy, matted black hair.

He observed Ludwig, gazing over at the window with alarm, and shrugged his shoulder.

"'Course I am!"

As he rubbed at his eyes, Ludwig peered over at him blearily, brow furrowed and lips pursed. He had been startled from sleep, that much was obvious. Platinum hair stood out in every direction, the too-big nightclothes engulfing him were wrinkled and twisting to the side, and his socks were falling from his feet.

Gilbert snorted at his disheveled appearance, and reached up, wrenching the black wig from his head with relief. He scratched at his own hair irritably, tossing the dirty wig half-heartedly on the couch.

Ludwig stared at it in confusion, murmuring huskily to himself, "What in the world...?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, don't even ask," he said, and walked towards the kitchen, cracking his knuckles. Ludwig trailed behind him, eyes narrowing further and further as Gilbert began to finger through the cabinets, reaching down every so often to peel up his damp shirt from his skin.

"I'm _hungry_," he cried, to no one, and as if to corroborate this statement his stomach gave a fierce rumble. He could find nothing to his liking, and turned around to glower down at Ludwig as he placed his hands on his hips. "Hey! Why don't you make some breakfast once in a while? Ahh, what good are ya?"

Ludwig furrowed his brow humorlessly, and Gilbert fell heavily into a chair, tossing his head back and closing his eyes.

Long night.

The thrill of the chase was fading, the adrenaline slowly evaporating from his veins as he sat still. Every run always brought him a good high, but he had cut this one too close, and his recklessness would raise questions with Ludwig.

The last thing he needed.

Questions from persistent, relentless Ludwig.

He placed his hand on his forehead, regretfully. Ah, hell. He had tried his best to hide his dubious acts from his young charge, always returning before sunrise, but Ludwig was already thirteen and too damn smart, and surely he had had suspicions, but he had never voiced them nor lingered on them.

So much for that.

He was caught in the act for the first time, and it was going to be hard to get around it.

Sure enough, he suddenly felt cool hands pulling at his collar, and then, when he failed to respond, his hair.

Finally, he opened one eye, peering over at Ludwig sternly.

"Stop it," he demanded.

Ludwig did not, continuing to tug mercilessly at the pale strands until Gilbert gave him his full attention.

"_What_? What d'ya want?"

"Where were you? Why did you go out?"

"Ah."

Sitting himself up straight, he reached out and took Ludwig's hands within his own, pulling on his confident and charming air in a flash.

Something he was good at.

"Hey... Don't worry about it," he whispered, desperate to change the subject. "You know I do what's best for you, don't you? I always stay on top of things. I'm mysterious like that, yeah? 'Cause I'm just that awesome and what-not. Adult stuff, you know. You're too young. So don't worry about it."

He laughed and ruffled Ludwig's hair affectionately, keeping his posture as loose and nonchalant as possible in an attempt to fool the younger into just _trusting_ him. Even if maybe he didn't really deserve it.

Losing Ludwig's confidence would be devastating.

Ludwig would not have understood such things. Ludwig was such a stickler for the rules, or so his teachers had said, anyway.

Great.

Of course he'd find the one little brother that would have berated him instead of thinking he was hot shit.

"Go back to sleep, why don't'cha?" he said, as he pinched Ludwig's neck gently. "You need some more beauty sleep."

But his charm failed this time, and Ludwig, primly ignoring his deflections, asked, "Why were the police after you?"

Ah. Right.

Nosy.

He coughed a bit, and pulled himself to his feet, backing to the door as he yelped, in a lame attempt at escape, "Man! Look at me! I'm a mess. I'm gonna go take a bath, alright? You should go back to bed."

But Ludwig only shook his head, stubborn little bastard, taking a step with him, and Gilbert began to feel cornered, the tension building in his chest.

The less Ludwig knew, the better. Why didn't he understand that?

Kids.

"Ludwig, go back to bed."

Another shake of that platinum head was his only response.

As his desperation intensified, so did his attitude.

His patience, like always, waned.

"Listen," he barked, and there was no gentleness in his voice now, "I already told you! I had things to take care of, and it's none of your business! All you need to know is that I take care of you! I take care of all my responsibilities, and if I wanna go out in the middle of the night and have some fun, then that's my right!"

Ludwig's shoulders slumped a little at his harsh voice, but he didn't back down.

"...fun?" Ludwig finally asked, softly, and scoffed. "What kind of fun involves getting chased by the police? What kind of fun needs you to wear a wig and a trench coat?"

"The best kind," he retorted, loudly, and Ludwig fell back a bit at his ire. "I don't need to explain anything to you, ya little brat, so stop naggin' me! Christ almighty, you get on my goddamn _nerves_ sometimes! Go back to bed, I don't wanna hear anything else from you."

His patience always fled too easily.

And if he could not win Ludwig over with charm, then he could only bully him into silence.

"...sorry."

It worked, it _always_ did, but God...

The obedience wasn't always worth the hurt in Ludwig's eyes.

He shifted guiltily when Ludwig bowed his head and came forward, ducking under him and slipping into his room without another word, shutting the door gently behind him. Gilbert watched the door for a moment, lost in contemplation, and could not help but sigh.

Sometimes...

He questioned himself.

It had been three years since he had found Ludwig wandering around Berlin aimlessly, hurt and lost and alone.

How time flew.

When Gilbert had brought him home that first time, he had told Ludwig that they were brothers, and Ludwig had believed him, having no reason not to, but he had to make it real.

And, in this world, real meant paper; touchable and absolutely irrefutable. He was no forger, but he knew plenty who were, and had set to work immediately.

He got all he needed. Fake birth certificates, for both himself (lost long ago with his parents) and Ludwig, linking them forever without doubt.

These were his most treasured.

And because Ludwig remembered nothing, he could change and create and warp the past as he saw fit. He christened Ludwig with his own last name (ha, take _that_ Roderich), created them parents anew, masterminded false school records. Everything that Ludwig had never known was born in paper.

It was just them. Ludwig had forgotten everyone else.

No more talk of Roderich.

As far as he was concerned, Roderich had never even existed.

Ludwig didn't remember him, and that was all that mattered.

To Ludwig, Gilbert was God now.

And he doted on him without limit.

He took him to the doctor every six months, he took him on expensive outings, he took him anywhere he wanted to go. He gave him the best of everything, enrolled him in the _Gymnasium_, sparing no expense in the furthering of his education.

He was proud and vain and confident, and he _loved_ lawlessness, but he did not want Ludwig following the same path as he had. Ludwig, a crook like himself? No way in hell.

Ludwig, as smart and good-natured as he was, was cut out to be something _more_.

A doctor, maybe.

He'd like that.

Ludwig had the whole world in front of him, possibilities at his fingertips.

And if he had to be strict and rough and sometimes downright _mean _to keep Ludwig from knowing the truth, then so be it.

It would be worth it, in the end.

When he was older and settled down in the world, Ludwig would understand.

Little kids. What did they know?

"It's for your own good, kid," he muttered to himself, and trudged up the stairs, thunking his fingers gently on the wall as he went.

He was irritated, and a bath was the only cure.

But first...

He pulled the envelope from his coat, tucking the money safely in his dresser. Six thousand Marks, he nodded in approval, was not bad at all for one night.

Hustling the underground was only a side job, when clients seeking his legal, ah, _'skills'_ were in short supply, and he preferred to keep that side of business as limited as possible. Too dirty and unpredictable.

But, hey. Everyone needed money.

He did everything imaginable.

Need a gun? No problem. Papers? Can do. Smuggling in some fighting dogs? Not an issue. Walking out alone at night? Watch your pockets...

But even he had lines he would not cross. He did not murder, and he did not go near the drugs, nor the federal banks. Nothing overly audacious.

He had too much at home to risk such things. And where would Ludwig go if went to jail, or if he was killed? The streets, most likely, and this thought terrified him above all else.

Losing Ludwig.

So he kept a close eye on himself.

He knew everyone, but no one knew him, and that was how he liked it. He was only Gilbert Beilschmidt at home. He had a name (and ID to back it up) for every other instance. He kept no friends, had no time for enemies, and even less time for women of the town.

He was, in a word, awesome.

Drawing his bath, he settled in, washed away the night, and started a new day.

And in good time, too, for his freshly socked foot had barely made it off the very last step back down into the living room when there was a knock at the door.

He heard a stir from within Ludwig's room, but before the boy could come out, he called, gently, "I've got it."

He did not want Ludwig to come out; he didn't want to see the disappointment on his face.

He could do without that, for now.

Making his way to the door, he smoothed back his hair and straightened down his shirt, and with sure fingers he reached out and grabbed the handle, pulling the door open without thinking.

But he never did think before he acted, and one day it would cause him problems.

He was too impulsive.

"Ah."

On the porch stood a police officer, tall and serious and imposing, and he tensed in anticipation when he caught Gilbert's gaze.

A moment of staring.

Silence.

"This is about earlier," Gilbert said as the cop opened his mouth, his voice calm and emotionless, and the officer took a step forward, pulling his hand up like lightening.

But it was not with handcuffs, nor with a gun.

Rather, the officer saluted briefly, and asked, eyes trusting, "Good morning, sir! I apologize to disturb you so early in the morning."

"Oh, no disturbance at all. I heard the commotion earlier."

"Yes, indeed, and I meant to ask if you've seen any suspicious individuals about lately. A suspect ran by earlier, but he disappeared. You wouldn't happen to have any information?"

"I'm sorry," Gilbert said, with the unwavering gaze of a tiger, "But I'm afraid I haven't. But I will be sure to contact the department should I see anything."

"Thank you, sir. Good day."

"Good day."

The cop turned on his heel and left, completely satisfied with this conversation, and why shouldn't he be?

The man he had looked at now, standing inside this elegant, expensive house, was a far cry from the wild-eyed thief he had been after only a few hours before. This man was well-dressed, posture as rigid as a board, head held high in the lofty confidence of wealth, hands tucked into pockets with casual ease, hair perfectly combed and shining.

His accent was that of a Viennese aristocrat.

This man was influential. Important.

That, anyway, was the façade that Gilbert fed to the world in daylight, and when he shut the door behind the officer he could not help but smile. No one could _ever_ suspect him. Not presented like this.

Listening to Roderich for so many years had taught him everything he needed to know.

Hell, he could even talk like him.

Fuckin' idiot.

"Have they come for you?"

At the sudden voice, he turned his back to the door, and his smile fell as soon as it had come.

Ludwig stood behind him, arms loose at his sides and eyes serious, and Gilbert opened his mouth only to lose his voice. Ludwig continued to stare at him, in that alarming way, and finally he shook his head, whispering, "One day they'll take you away."

With that rather foreboding statement, Ludwig fell back and retreated into his room, but he did not shut the door.

Surprisingly.

Gilbert could only take this as an invitation, and followed reluctantly inside with a bit of shame, where Ludwig was huddled on his bed, staring off at the opposite wall.

...awkward.

He shut the door behind.

"Hey."

Burying his face in his pillow, Ludwig refused to look at him as he sat on the edge of the bed.

When Ludwig offered no conversation, he finally took the initiative.

"Don't say things like that," he chided, gently. "I won't ever leave you. I told you that, right?"

For all it mattered. Gilbert said a _lot_ of things, but they weren't always true.

There was no response to his lame attempt, and he sighed, bowing his head.

Well.

What could he do?

"I'm sorry, Lutz. I shouldn't have yelled at you earlier."

Now Ludwig looked up through bleary eyes (he was _such_ a sucker for that pet-name that Gilbert reserved for tough occasions), and said, lowly, "I don't care about that. I just don't want anything to happen to you."

"Ludwig! Nothin's gonna happen to me! You oughta know better!"

Ludwig sent him a quick glare.

Inhaling deeply, Gilbert threw himself down on the bed, turning onto his side to face the kid he called 'little brother'.

Ludwig watched him thoughtfully, hands clenching the covers and brow low, and it was obvious that he was not buying anything Gilbert was selling.

Damn. Gilbert was sometimes taken aback by how serious and thoughtful and observant Ludwig could be, and he was also taken aback at times by how it _intimidated_ him.

Him!

He feared nothing. He retreated from nothing. But despite his arrogant and self-centered nature, there was something absolutely _terrifying_ about the thought that he was letting Ludwig down.

That Ludwig was analyzing him, and that he did not like what he saw.

His greatest fear.

"Listen," he began, and tried desperately to smile, "I already told you. Don't worry about me."

Ludwig was not swayed by his confidence and turned away again.

This was not working.

He looked about the room, disheartened, and his eyes paused when they caught sight of the pile of stuffed animals in the corner, the remnants of Christmas' and birthdays past.

Ha.

He couldn't help but smile. He knew that Ludwig wasn't fond of such things, not at all, but _he_ was, and it was a testament to Ludwig's devotion to him that he allowed them to stay in his room.

Suffering Gilbert.

Well, he was his little brother, after all.

Not 'little brother'.

Little brother.

Maybe not blood, but by something stronger.

He loved Ludwig.

That was enough. Who cared where Ludwig had come from? Who cared who his parents were? Who cared if he had real brothers or sisters somewhere?

_He_ didn't.

Ludwig was just Ludwig.

Gilbert had made him a part of his family the second he had bestowed the lost child with his late father's name.

"I know you're upset," he said, suddenly encouraged, and he walked two fingers up Ludwig's back playfully, "But I promise that I'll always be with you, so... Please don't think too badly of me. I hate it when you're mad at me. Come on! Eh? Let me see ya smile a little. I'll make it up to ya!"

Ludwig shifted, and finally, mercifully, looked over his shoulder and peered up at him, and Gilbert could see him coming around.

'Bout time.

He reached out and cuffed Ludwig's chin gingerly, adding earnestly, "I love you, you know. Come on, I tell you all the time."

"I know."

Ludwig smiled, and the world was right again.

"I love you too, big brother."

"That's it," Gilbert cried, and pulled himself upright at the waist. "Glad to hear it! Hey, I'll go find some breakfast. Rest a little, alright? Go back to sleep for a while."

Ludwig nodded, and Gilbert pulled himself to his feet and retreated, the heaviness gone from his chest, but just when he was closing the door a soft whisper from behind made his heart skip a beat.

"Just promise me you're not hurting anyone."

He looked back, and was caught in Ludwig's intense gaze.

Hurting anyone?

He hurt people every day, one way or another.

Ludwig looked up to him.

Smiling weakly, he lied, maybe too easily, "I promise," and fled, perhaps too quickly.

But Ludwig believed him, the dummy, and said nothing more.

Ludwig trusted him. Foolishly.

He continued on with his devious outings, but much more cautiously from then on.

Ludwig suspected nothing (or, at any rate, if he _did_, he didn't say anything), and Gilbert doted upon him more than ever before, having been so close to losing his trust.

Spring faded quickly, and the rest of the year passed quietly.

Ludwig was growing.


	3. 1910

Chapter 2

**1910**

It was cooler than normal for the month of May, the sun hidden behind a cloud front that was steadily closing in. Rumbling in the distance of an approaching storm. Strong wind.

The city was bustling in full swing, outdoor market stalls crowded and streets loud as hell, laughing and talking and in a good humor, but a sudden clap of thunder right overhead quickly changed the mood.

People sped their paces.

And then the rain came out of nowhere, torrential and merciless in its wrath, and beleaguered pedestrians scurried to flee to dry ground. Many of them darted into the train station, others into nearby shops.

Two of them ran into a tiny, rundown restaurant that looked near collapse, but even in the downpour the taller stopped to hold open the door. Chivalry, perhaps, was not dead.

"Hurry _up_! I'm gettin' soaked here, are ya blind?"

Then again...

"Well," came the testy reply, "I _told _you it looked like it was getting cloudy—"

"_Hurry up_!"

As they scurried inside, they stopped in front of the door and shook the water from their clothes as best they could, and Gilbert tossed back his head, sweeping his fingers through his hair in a futile, vain attempt to straighten it. It fell flat against his scalp, matted and without sheen, and he heaved a sigh of defeat.

"Goddammit," he grumbled to himself, wringing his shirt in his hands, "I spent so much time today gettin' ready for this!" He went to the window and placed his palms on the frame, staring up at the grey sky morosely. "Mm! _Man_..."

He turned, and was disgruntled to see the ever calm expression upon Ludwig's face.

Nothing ever rattled Ludwig.

"Well," he offered, pleasantly, "It could be worse, right?"

"I don't see how," Gilbert threw back, and looked around at the pale, peeling wallpaper and shoddy ceiling. "I got reservations to the best restaurant in town, and now we're stuck in this..._shack_." He crinkled his nose in disgust, adding, "They've probably got rats in the basement, and..." He trailed off at the stern look Ludwig sent him, and shuffled his feet.

Ludwig had a way of making him feel ridiculous without even trying.

So much for his day.

This was certainly a disappointing turn of events, but Ludwig, however, seemed determined to make the best of it, and finally whispered, "Well. Calm down, Gilbert. I'm sure it will be fine."

"Yeah. Sure."

He sighed, but pulled himself upright nonetheless, trying to smile even as he shook his hair around to clear it of rainwater.

It was only Ludwig's birthday once a year, after all, and by God! He could turn this misfortune into magic, if he tried.

Didn't really _feel_ like trying much, but what other choice did he have?

They were stuck, at least until the rain stopped. But the clouds didn't show any signs of breaking.

Figured.

Ludwig had knelt down to straighten his pant legs, and Gilbert eyed him with a bit of bemusement as he pulled a cloth out of his pocket and started to wipe off his shoes.

Typical Ludwig.

Only he would carry around a cloth for emergency situations.

Raising up his hand to bite his nails in an effort to keep from laughing, Gilbert only shook his head, and said, "Well, I'm starving. Looks like we'll stay here, huh?"

Without looking up, his eyes completely focused on his shoes, Ludwig only supplied, "That's fine."

Fine, fine, fine.

Everything was always fine.

Sometimes, Gilbert was grateful for that.

Ludwig was not hard to please.

After a second of hesitation and reluctance, Gilbert finally took a step forward, noting the completely empty restaurant, and, showcasing his constant charm and class, threw his hands around his mouth and bellowed, "_HEY_! Anybody home in this joint? I'm hungry!"

Ludwig wrenched himself back upright, a horrified look upon his face.

"G-Gilbert!" he hissed, his face red in obvious embarrassment, and Gilbert only shrugged him off.

"Hey! Hello? _Hello_!"

As Ludwig watched in absolute mortification, a man, tall and rugged, suddenly poked his head out from behind a far door and screamed back, "_What_? Don't you see me working back here? I work all day to make the food and no one comes, and the restaurant, she is tired, so don't think I'm all that bothered with you! And if you're the health inspector,_ và a farti fottere—_"

It was only because Ludwig looked like he was about to keel over dead from shame that Gilbert fell back.

"Alright, alright, I'm sorry," he conceded, sitting himself down at the closest table without thought, and the man sent him a prompt 'hmph!' before he turned and retreated into the kitchen, huffing and puffing, and Gilbert called after him, "I'm just here to eat, pal."

When they were alone, Gilbert patted his hand on the table beckoningly with a wide smile, but Ludwig refused to join him, standing off to side and burying his face in his palm in embarrassment.

A low, grumbled whisper.

"I cannot _believe_ you."

"What?" he asked, genuinely surprised at Ludwig's face of shame, and when there was no response, he shrugged one shoulder. "It's alright! Come sit down."

He did not, mumbling to himself, and Gilbert turned his attention to other things.

Like how shitty this place looked.

Plain and boring.

Over his shoulder, he cried, "_HEY_! Don't you guys have some tablecloths or candles or something? I got a birthday to celebrate here! _C'mon_!"

Ludwig groaned.

The head reappeared, and the scruffy man said with a smile, in much friendlier tone, "Of course! Anything for a custom—"

"Why don't you go eat in your own home, you blond bastards," interrupted another voice from behind, rough and scratchy, and Gilbert jumped, twisting around so quickly he nearly cracked his spine.

"_What_?" he barked, eyes wide and bristling and ready to make absolute war, and even Ludwig had removed his face from his hand long enough to look up.

But his fury dissolved into complete astonishment when he saw the tall man wrestling with another, this one much younger, from within the threshold of the kitchen. They were hissing and spitting and pushing at each other, and it suddenly made absolute sense why this place was so dead.

Fuckin' weirdos.

The instigator looked young, maybe late teens, dark-haired and dark-skinned, and Gilbert (whom nothing shocked) was _flabbergasted_ at the language pouring from his mouth.

"You little brat! Be quiet—"

"—coming in here and screaming at me in my own fuckin' restaurant! German swine! No respect! Motherfu—"

"—ruining everything! It's because of _you_ we're so broke—"

"_Goddammit_! I hate this fuckin' place—"

"Shut up! _Shut up_!"

They fell into unintelligible Italian ranting, screeching and shoving at each other, and Ludwig came over to Gilbert's side, sitting down for lack of anything else to do, wringing his hands together anxiously.

Finally, the older man overpowered the other and shoved him back into the kitchen, face red and looking hassled. When the curses faded, he turned back to them and smiled weakly.

An awkward silence.

"Ah! You must forgive my grandson! He has, how you say, ah...bad temper?"

"Obviously," Gilbert drawled, and drummed his fingers on the table. "Listen—"

"No, no! It's alright," the man cried eagerly, and it was apparent that he did not see customers often. And with that—that..._thing _in the back, Gilbert thought to himself, it was no damn wonder.

"Please, please! Sit! Stay! I'll bring everything you wanted! I make it pretty, yeah? Pretty birthday celebration! Whole restaurant to yourselves! Good?"

"Good."

"Good!"

He scampered off, leaving Ludwig shifting uncomfortably in his wake.

Well.

Right.

_Italians_. Ugh.

Ludwig was looking this way and that for an escape, hands still wringing in his lap, and it was obvious that he was debating exactly how worth it it was to him to ruin his clothes in the rain.

Gilbert noticed his discomfort, but wisely stayed silent. Anything he could say would only worsen Ludwig's mood.

And he _always_ ended up saying the wrong thing. A curse of his.

"We should go," Ludwig finally whispered, but Gilbert shook his head emphatically.

"In this weather? No thanks! It'll be alright, don't worry about it."

"That's your answer to everything," Ludwig muttered morosely. "'Don't worry about it'. That's all you _ever_ say. Why don't you think of something else for once? I don't like it here." He glanced subconsciously towards the back, and added, "I don't think we're very welcome."

Before he could respond, the apparent owner came back with a table cloth and a half-used candle, setting them up with surprisingly fluid movements, as promised.

"There! It's pretty, no? I'll bring you the special! Best food in the city!"

"That sounds great," Gilbert responded, a bit mechanically.

Best food in the city?

Yeah. Sure.

But his stomach was grumbling, and at this point he would eat _anything_.

And he had to admit, with the crimson cloth and lit candle, the atmosphere was greatly improved.

Even stuffy Ludwig relaxed a bit into his chair.

"See? This'll be fine. So—"

"Don't worry about it. Yeah. Right."

The rain pounded on the roof.

Comforting clinking upon the shingles.

Despite himself, Ludwig finally smiled, just a little, filling Gilbert's world with light.

See?

Ha; he could salvage anything. Anything.

"Happy birthday."

"Thank you."

Leaning back, Gilbert hissed air through his teeth, thoughtfully. "Wow," he began, "I can't believe you're already fourteen. Time flies, huh?"

"I guess."

And Ludwig was content to leave it at that.

Ludwig was no conversational match for someone as talkative as Gilbert, that was for sure, but it was alright, he supposed. If he was, then perhaps they would not get along so well.

And, damn, Ludwig seemed to be growing every single day. Already he was almost as tall as Gilbert, though a little leaner. His eyes were even paler than in his youth, as was his skin.

He was maturing, the petulant attitude of childhood wearing into one of complete seriousness.

He was almost _too_ serious. Too calm. Too unshakeable.

Ludwig had always been a weird little kid, but Gilbert had always assumed that he would have rubbed off on Ludwig a little.

Not so.

In fact, Ludwig was pretty much the opposite of everything Gilbert prided himself on. It surprised him, sure, but it wasn't completely unpleasant. Ludwig was never going to be a person that he could go out and party with, not someone that he could expect to share coarse jokes with, and not someone that he could ever really see as a personality equal.

But that was fine. Opposites attract, after all.

He loved Ludwig the way he was. Wouldn't change him for anything in the world.

Ludwig was his anchor. The reason for everything. The only thing to look forward to. The only light at the end of the tunnel.

And, God, it surprised him too how _handsome_ Ludwig was becoming, straight nose and defined cheekbones and from a very well-bred bloodline, and Gilbert was becoming increasingly aware that soon he would have to protect his little brother from more things than he had ever thought possible.

From the less innocent parts of the world.

Who'd've known that he'd grown up to be so regal?

And he wasn't even done yet. He was still a kid—who knew how he'd look ten years from now?

It was a little intimidating, actually.

Ah, hell.

Ludwig was _growing_. It was kind of hard to handle. Like a knife in his gut. Maybe this was what parents felt when they saw their kids growing up.

It was _hard_.

So hard.

Christ almighty, when he had woken up one morning and saw Ludwig sitting there at the kitchen table, coffee in hand, he had had to stop in his tracks and do a double take when he realized with a horrible pang of _something_ that Ludwig's pale cheeks were tinted with stubble.

When had _that_ happened?

It came in the little things.

Ludwig got a little taller every day. His hands got a little bigger. His voice got a little deeper.

That morning, when he had frozen still, Ludwig had glanced at him from the corner of his eye, and even from a distance Gilbert could see his chest was puffed out and his chin high, like he was just waiting for Gilbert to say something.

Gilbert had only stood there, frozen, and Ludwig finally turned to him and had asked, 'Notice anything different?'

What could he say? He had wanted to burst into tears.

But, instead, he finally found his voice and had said, weakly, 'Whoa! Where... Where'd that come from?'

Ludwig had beamed as bright as the sun, and he'd quickly responded, 'Yesterday! I thought you'd've noticed, but I guess it wasn't up enough yet.'

'Oh,' had been his lame response.

Ludwig only reached up, rubbing proudly at his pale stubble with a self-satisfied smirk.

And, oh, how Gilbert's hands had trembled when he had been forced to teach Ludwig how to shave. He'd dropped the razor at least twice.

Ludwig had been so excited. So proud.

He'd only felt sick.

Oh, _God_. He didn't _want_ Ludwig to grow up. He wanted Ludwig to be a little kid forever.

This growing up shit was too _hard_.

Maybe he was just afraid that when Ludwig was grown, he'd walk out of the door one day and never come back.

At this thought, he shifted uncomfortably, twisting his hands together. It was harder than he had thought it would be to be a guardian, especially to someone he was so attached to, who was growing so rapidly and becoming so independent, and knowing that there were none of the normal laws set by blood.

He could see friction in the future, and it frightened him.

He didn't want Ludwig to leave him once he was grown. He didn't want Ludwig to be a man, independent and strong.

He wanted Ludwig to rely on him forever.

Selfish, maybe, but there it was.

"Here!"

He started when the loud clatter of plates being dropped onto the table crashed into his ears, making him jump in his seat.

"Thanks," he said automatically, but when he looked up, it was the young spitfire that was standing above him, not the older.

Great.

"Here," the irate teen repeated, loudly and obnoxiously, "You better eat it all too! I'm sick of you jerks coming in here and never finishing! Wasting my food that I cook all day, and..."

With a sigh, Gilbert filtered the obnoxious voice into white noise, and looked down at his food. Pasta. Of course.

Italians.

"Hey," he cried, in surprise, nonetheless, "this actually looks pretty good." He grabbed his fork, muttering darkly to himself as an afterthought, "You better not have done anything to it, you little punk."

That was a mistake.

The brat heard him and burst into a fit.

"How dare you! _How dare you_! You bastards make me so angry! I sweat to God, whenever I'm in here I just want to hit someone! _Porca puttana_! _Vaffanculo_!"

Gilbert a bit in annoyance as the grating voice lit up his ear, and Ludwig fell back in alarm.

Oh, man.

The brat's voice grew steadily louder, until finally he was screeching in earnest, voice cracking with the effort, "I hate this place so much! Germans everywhere! It makes me _sick_! I can't stand it here anymore! I tell gran'pa every day, please, please, let's go back to Italy, because I hate it here so much! So _much_! Everyday I have to look at all you blond sons of whores, and you all look the _same_! And your language is so ugly, I hate speaking it but I HAVE TO, and, _ah_! I have to get _OUT_!"

He slammed a glass onto the table with particular voracity, and the crash it made startled Ludwig so that he leapt to his feet, knocking his chair backwards in the process.

A silence.

Ludwig stared over at the brat, who stared right back. Both of their eyes were wide.

Gilbert watched with a lifted brow of interest, waiting to see what would happen.

Ha.

Yeah, let's see where this went.

The Italian looked like he was about to blow a gasket, and Ludwig looked like he was about to have coronary.

Finally, the brat took an aggressive step forward, and said, huskily, "What? _What_? You wanna go, huh?"

Ludwig, eyes wide and looking mortified, raised up his hand, probably meaning to try and keep the peace.

But the action was misinterpreted.

Gilbert watched in awe as the brat fell back immediately into a defensive stance, raising his hands up in front of his face and keeping his shoulders squared. Protecting his face, he stammered, "H-hey! Don't try anything, buddy! This is my place!"

Ludwig just stood there, and he almost looked a little..._sad_.

Poor Ludwig.

Ludwig would never raise his hand in anger unless hit first.

A thick, choking silence.

Slowly, Ludwig's hands fell down to his side, and he tilted his head and furrowed his brow, before finally heaving a great sigh.

The Italian brat, seeing that Ludwig appeared to be conceding, began to creep backwards towards the kitchen. Ludwig watched him go, and didn't say a word. When the brunet was tucked safely back in the threshold of the kitchen, he crossed his arms above his chest, caught Ludwig's eye, and said, huskily, "That's what I thought! Next time you try that, I'm gonna give you a what for you'll never forget!"

Ludwig's mouth fell open.

Gilbert wrenched around in his chair, and gawked back.

Wha—_what_?

Gilbert couldn't really do anything else but to throw his head back and dissolve into hysterical laughter.

Never in his _life_! And oh, _oh _Christ, the _look_ on Ludwig's _face_!

"Oh! You—you! I can't even— Oh, man," he wheezed, helplessly, as Ludwig sat back down at the table, and Gilbert finally gathered enough breath to ask, "What's your name?"

"Lovino," came the gruff, stern reply, and then he was gone.

"No, come _back_," Gilbert called, as he gasped for breath, not wanting to see the altercation come to an end.

Ludwig sent him a stern look, and muttered darkly under his breath, "Oh, Gilbert. Just shut up."

But that had done it.

From that day forward, he made it a habit, a ritual, to drag Ludwig out to the tiny, shoddy restaurant run by Roma and Lovino every other Sunday.

Ludwig accompanied him reluctantly, and couldn't really ever say 'no' to Gilbert when he was set on something.

As the weeks came and went, Lovino slowly developed a camaraderie of sorts with Gilbert (abrasive personalities and all that), and yet somehow remained resentful and fearful of Ludwig.

Like there was something really _wrong_ with Ludwig. Probably just because he stared and didn't say a word.

Poor Ludwig.

Every time, Ludwig just rested his chin in his palm, stared off at the opposite wall, and heaved great sighs.

Sorry about it; the comic relief was _well_ worth his brother's discomfort.

Besides, you could never know (especially in _his_ line of work) when someone could be beneficial to you in the future, and Lovino had that certain volatile nature and unpredictable attitude that could one day prove to be very useful.

For one thing or another.

Time flew.

Ludwig was ever oblivious.

Life went on as normal.

The months passed uneventfully, the weather got warmer, Ludwig's hands got a little bigger, Gilbert got his first grey hair (hard to see, sure, but he'd panicked all the same), and then one sudden day their routine was almost interrupted.

Almost.

Treading down the stairs one morning, he was surprised to see that Ludwig was sitting at the kitchen table, coffee in hand and staring down at something.

Well, it wasn't surprising that Ludwig was up so early.

It was, however, to see him tapping his foot restlessly. Like something big had happened.

Gilbert had stopped in the threshold of the kitchen and watched silently as Ludwig shuffled over and over again through a small pile of post.

That was strange enough, because Ludwig always left the mail on the counter, because it was _never_ anything important.

And the look on his face was even stranger. Why so concerned (or was that excitement?) about mail?

Or was Ludwig excited about something else?

God almighty, had he started to get hair on his chest now?

Had he started noticing _girls_?

Gilbert would keel over dead.

Fuck growing up. That was all he had to say on the matter.

If he could turn back the hand of time and keep Ludwig as a short, skinny, awkward little twelve-year-old forever, then by God! He would.

Alas.

"What's up?" he finally greeted, already feeling a twinge of unease in his step.

He did not like unexpected things.

Big or small.

Ludwig started at his presence, and this lapse was even stranger, for Ludwig was never caught unawares. He looked up at Gilbert almost guiltily, was silent for a moment, and finally said, "There's a letter."

Gilbert's brow came down.

Oh?

That was...bad.

"From who?" he asked, warily.

He did not know anyone who could possibly write letters. No friends. No family. No associates.

No one. He was too careful for such things. Gilbert Beilschmidt did not exist to the outside world.

"I'm not sure," Ludwig finally said, turning the letter restlessly in his hands, the smile obvious on his face. "It's from Austria. There's no name, just some kind of seal."

He did not really hear the words at first.

He was too distracted by the shadow of stubble on Ludwig's cheek. Morning stubble. Had he had stubble at fourteen?

No, no, no. No.

No.

Goddammit. Hadn't Ludwig been eight just the other day? The hell?

"So, who do you think is?"

"Eh?" he griped, breaking his eyes away from the sudden masculinity of Ludwig's chin and back up. "Sorry?"

"I said, it's from Austria! Who do you think it is? Do you know anyone there?"

Air left.

Couldn't breathe.

"Austria?"

With a great shudder, he felt the blood freeze in his veins.

A horrible dread.

There was absolutely no doubt, no doubt, as he took the letter from Ludwig's hands, even though there was no name; this _had_ to be Roderich.

No one else he had ever known would use that diplomatic seal.

Roderich. Back from the dead.

How (_how_?) had he discovered this address?

How? And what could he possibly want?

Hadn't Roderich already stuck his nose far enough in both of their lives? What more did he _want_? Was this some kind of attempt to branch out and tie up loose ends?

Was Roderich writing him to bitch at him for disappearing into the Berlin mists with Ludwig?

Good God, how had he _found_ them?

Gilbert had never left a trail.

Never.

"It's probably just trash," he finally said, his voice far too soft, but in his haste he had not looked well enough at the letter.

"It's for me," Ludwig said.

Simple words.

The fear they brought was far beyond _simple_.

Roderich.

Coming for Ludwig.

This was _not_ possible.

He gripped the paper tightly in his hands, wrinkling the edges, and looked down.

It was true. The name in the corner was Ludwig's.

Just Ludwig.

Feeling faint, Gilbert fell into a chair, gripping the letter as his eyes scanned the parchment over and over again in disbelief.

What?

_What_?

His head felt like it would split open at any second.

Chest ached.

Couldn't breathe.

Roderich was coming for Ludwig, like the tide creeping up on the beach.

"Can I open it?" Ludwig asked, hopefully, and he jumped.

Breathless hesitation.

The horror turned to anger.

"Absolutely _not!_" he barked, far too harshly, yanking himself to his feet and crumpling the letter in his fist. "No way. It's just junk. Nothing more, nothing less. Just forget you ever saw it."

Ludwig's face fell.

The paper felt heavy in his hands.

Irritated and frightened and so _angry_, he furrowed his brow and lifted his shoulders and said, sternly (and unfairly), "Who said you could check the mail anyway?"

Ludwig sank back in his chair, and Gilbert did not miss the hurt.

Oh. Not what he wanted.

"Sorry."

"Don't do it again," was all he managed, as he turned on his heel and stomped out of the kitchen in a fit of cowardice, trudging up to his room as his heart thudded, bolting the door securely behind.

He threw the wrinkled note furiously on the bed, stalking back and forth in a horrible rage.

The letter looked mockingly innocent.

Roderich.

Oh, God, how he _hated_ Roderich.

What right did he have?

How _dare _Roderich write to _Ludwig_, behind his back. How dare Roderich even bother tracking Ludwig down in the first place. How dare he try to communicate in secret! How dare he _interfere_, when it had been _his_ idea all along for Gilbert to take Ludwig.

What did he want?

Ludwig had grown up so well under his care.

Ludwig was happy. He was happy. _They_ were happy.

What right did Roderich have to wedge himself between?

Oh, he'd _die_ if Ludwig ever looked at Roderich like a hero again.

If Roderich somehow took Gilbert's place.

He'd die.

Ludwig was all there _was_.

The letter sat there.

Still.

He had every right to throw it out, burn it even, and Ludwig would never know what it said.

And neither would he.

But...

His pace slowed, and he looked down at the seemingly harmless letter, shifting uneasily as the curiosity crept up.

It was better not to know, he knew it was, but there was no denying that he wanted to know what Roderich was saying.

If only to have a reason to hate him a little more.

What harm could it do, to read it?

As long as Ludwig never saw it, there couldn't be any consequences...

"What the hell?" he finally breathed to himself, and sat down on the edge of the bed, ripping the envelope open with intentional ruthlessness. Gripping the letter in his hands and bracing himself, he furrowed his brow and began to read.

_Dear Ludwig,_

_You can't possibly imagine how happy I was when I finally tracked you down, only to find that you were alive! What a great burden lifted from my shoulders. I was so worried when you disappeared all those years ago, because I knew you were going after Gilbert and you were so young! I looked everywhere for you for so long, so long, and I never found a trace. I admit that I had assumed the worst._

_What relief I have felt these past months cannot be put into words, knowing that you're well._

_How are you? How have you been? Are you alright, child? So many times I've asked myself these questions._

_I won't lie and say that I wasn't a bit hurt when you left to go after Gilbert. But that's just foolish pride, I suppose. At any rate__, you obviously had more faith in him than I, misplaced or no, and perhaps the gamble you took paid off. I hope he's been good to you. I hope you are doing well._

_I know we have not spoken to each other for a while, but please know that it was only because I could not find you. I never stopped searching for you. I only regret that it took me so long to locate you! Gilbert, as I could have expected, refused the opportunity I gave him, and disappeared. I was unsure if he had taken you with him, as he had certainly had no interest before. _

_But no matter._

_We are speaking now, and I have written to you in the hopes that you will grace me with your presence. I regret terribly that you didn't stay before, and so I hope you will come now, at my request. Feliciano, your age now, and home-sick, has gone off to Venice to search for his lost family, and the house is terribly empty without him. Erzsébet is lonely, and lately I have found myself thinking of you more than ever, wondering if you were truly alright. It would be so wonderful if you would come and reside in Vienna with us. _

_We miss you. I dare to hope the feeling is mutual._

_I don't know what Gilbert has provided (assuming he has at all) in the way of education, but I know how quick-minded you are, and if you would come with me, I would certainly be able to procure you with a position on my next diplomatic outing. You would be by my side, learning the fine art of politics and cultures, traveling the world in the name of courtesy and diplomacy. Perhaps you will find the occupation to be your calling, and I would be honored to provide for you a decent role model. Such a smart, well-mannered young man as yourself should not be forced to live with those who simply cannot provide for your needs._

_Come home, Ludwig. Come to Vienna, where you belong. How I miss the days when we used to sit and play the piano together! I hope you remember still all of those times. Happy times. Come back to your real home. Come stay with us. I have so many more symphonies that I want to teach you._

_I've missed you. I truly have. I always had a soft spot for you. _

_We consider you family. Come make the house complete._

_Please write back as soon as you can, should you decide to accept. But please mind that it may be prudent to keep this between us until the arrangements are complete. Gilbert has always had quite the temper, and I fear he may try to keep you from me yet again. _

_If you refuse, that is fine too. But please let me know. If I fail to hear from you, I will continue writing until I have my response. Please think about it. This is a wonderful opportunity for you._

_Come home, Ludwig._

_Hopefully awaiting a favorable reply, _

_Roderich Edelstein_

Roderich.

That was it.

Numb and stunned, Gilbert stared blankly at the wall ahead, too horrified and too _betrayed_ to even think, and the letter quivered in his shaking hands.

He had _never_...

Never...

Oh, God, no words.

There were no words.

This attack.

God knew that they had always hated each other, but to see those words written there? Too much. Betrayal.

Roderich.

How could Roderich try to turn Ludwig _against_ him? How could he try to take Ludwig _away_ from him, when he had raised him so? When he had cared for him? When he had loved him? When he would have done _anything_ for him?

Ludwig was his. He had raised him.

Ludwig was not Roderich's. Ludwig had forgotten him.

He had won. Roderich had lost.

This betrayal.

He finally found his voice.

"That—that _jerk_," he stammered dazedly, pale and trembling and feeling a horrible rush of burning wrath rising in his chest, and his hands just wouldn't stop shaking.

His hands contracted. The paper was crushed within.

Rage.

Never had he known it like this.

Fire burning his veins.

With a great cry of fury that he could not repress, he leapt to feet and twisted his arm, punching the wall as hard as he could.

He didn't realize that he was shrieking.

"_THAT GODDAMN _JERK!"

Red.

Everything was red.

In a rage, he pulled his arm back and hit the wall again, and again, and again, not even registering the pain in his knuckles when they cracked.

Blood stained the wall.

"_Son of a bitch_! That _bastard_!"

The wood did not give.

"You won't _ever _have him, you hear me? _EVER_! I'd fucking _die _before I let you come and take him! I'll _kill_ you if you ever come out here!"

He lost track of time, lost in wrath he had never known, and when he finally calmed down, sweating and panting and quivering, he looked down at his hand, and winced.

The skin of his knuckles was gone. Raw. A tiny glimmer of white that was the bone.

As the adrenaline wore off and his hand ached like it had been crushed in a vice, he threw himself back onto the bed, and stared down at the offending ball of crumpled paper that lay on the edge.

Ludwig could _never_ see it.

Never.

Not ever.

What if seeing those words somehow brought back sealed off memories of Roderich?

He couldn't bear it.

Fuckin' letter.

He reached for it. But he didn't throw it away.

Rather, he threw it in a dresser drawer, intending to use it forever and always as a reminder and justification of why he _hated_ Roderich so.

Proof. Physical proof of Roderich's betrayal.

As soon as he shut the drawer, the anger faded into horrible, exhausting sadness, and he collapsed down onto the floor, burying his face in his uninjured hand as he began to sob.

Ludwig was _everything_.

And maybe some part of him thought that, just maybe, Ludwig really would be better off with Roderich.

Roderich, who lived life in the open, with no fear of being taken away.

Roderich, who was powerful and important.

Roderich, who could have given Ludwig the world.

And in doing so, Roderich would replace him.

Feeling the world coming to a lurching halt, he fell into melancholy, and Ludwig, down below, could only stare up at the ceiling, hearing the strange and violent noises above, and wonder what he had done wrong.


	4. 1911  1

Chapter 3

**1911**

Winter had always been one of his favorite seasons, second only to fall.

Cold air. White skies. Quiet times.

The fireplace roaring in the living room.

Winter had always been kind to Ludwig.

Some people walked around in the snow and slush, and looked as if they would have liked nothing more than to sink down into the street and die, wiping their noses with their sleeves and grumbling miserably under their breath.

Ludwig loved walking in the snow.

And so he was now, cheeks red and breath puffing out white in the freezing air, and even as he walked home he could see how miserable most people that he passed looked.

Oh, well. To each their own.

It didn't bother him. He'd rather be in the cold than the merciless heat of summer.

He bounded up the steps as eagerly as he did in the spring months (if not a bit more carefully for the ice) and reached out to grab the handle.

"Gilbert!"

Pushing open the door, Ludwig slid inside, bulky coat covered in snow and water as he cradled his books in his arms. A flurry of January snowflakes came in behind him, and he shut the door as fast as he could, looking around in anticipation at letting his brother in on every detail of yet another school day.

Gilbert, as doting and possessive as he was, was always eager to hear the news, and the lessons, and even the homework.

He shook the water from his hair, and turned around.

Silence.

Huh.

Gilbert was not there, and he frowned.

Well, that was unusual. Gilbert was _always_ waiting for him when he returned from the _Gymnasium_.

That loud mouth was always running.

"Gilbert?"

He removed his coat and put it up to dry, shivering a little as the cold settled in. Setting his schoolbooks down on an end table, he went around the corner and looked into the kitchen. Gilbert was not there. He looked in the back yard, in the basement, and finally trekked up the stairs, poking his head into Gilbert's room.

Nothing.

Accepting that Gilbert was not home, he went back downstairs and threw himself down on the sofa, taking up his books and tapping a pencil over his schoolwork dutifully.

Every so often, he found himself glancing towards the window, where the snow still fell outside, and no matter how hard he tried, he found that his eyes kept wandering over to the mailbox. Seeing it brought on a pang of longing.

Ever since that letter had come, Gilbert had strictly forbade him from checking the mail ever again, and he obeyed, fearful of invoking his brother's wrath, or at the very least, to keep from disappointing him.

But, oh God, he _desperately_ wished that he had opened it when he had had the chance. He had twisted it in his hands for so long that he hadn't even heard Gilbert coming down. It had been _his_ letter. Not Gilbert's. Why shouldn't he have been allowed to open it?

No one _ever_ wrote to him.

He had no friends, no acquaintances, no peers. That was how Gilbert liked it, and he had told him over and over, what good were friends when he had such an 'awesome big brother'?

Maybe so.

Still, it was a bit lonely. Just Gilbert and himself. That wasn't a normal family. A normal life.

No matter how hard Gilbert tried.

The snow fell harder.

The door suddenly clicked, alerting him, and he looked over when Gilbert stepped inside, shaking himself off like a dog. When he caught Ludwig's gaze, Gilbert smiled amicably, stretching up his arms lazily above his head and saying, "Hey, kiddo. Good day?"

"It was alright. Where were you? I was waiting."

Gilbert just smiled.

"Just meeting a client. Nothing to worry about."

As he turned his back to Ludwig, pulling off his soaked coat, he added, "Miss me?"

"Mm-hm!"

Well, that was true. He always missed Gilbert when he was gone. Always.

Gilbert seemed satisfied at his enthusiasm.

"Yeah, you better."

Ludwig smiled and leaned back into the sofa, waiting patiently for Gilbert to give him his full attention as he tapped his pencil down upon his papers. It was not long coming before Gilbert noticed his relentless stare, and lifted a brow.

"What's up?"

Eagerly, Ludwig clutched the folder to his chest, saying, "I have to write an essay."

Gilbert scoffed, hanging his coat up carelessly next to Ludwig's and wiping his boots on the mat. "Well, listen, I'm not exactly the person to help out with _that_."

"But it's about you," he added, and now Gilbert looked at him, a strange curiosity on his face.

That huge ego.

"Me?"

A wide grin of self-satisfaction spread over Gilbert's face, and he suddenly seemed much more interested.

Ludwig carried on, now that Gilbert's flitting mind had finally focused.

"We had to write about our father's careers, and when I told them I don't have a father, they said I could write about you." He smiled, setting the folder on his lap. "Since you're a lawyer, I figure it'll be pretty easy! It shouldn't take very long. I just need to learn exactly what you do."

"Ah."

A strange, prolonged silence.

Gilbert's interest suddenly seemed...

Alarmed.

He squirmed under Ludwig's unwavering gaze, seeming suddenly uncomfortable as he tried to give a confident laugh.

It came off as weak, and strained.

"Sure! That's! That's no problem. But why don't we eat first? I'm starving!"

Gilbert's gaze kept wandering. His smile was only half-hearted.

He looked suddenly a bit ill.

But Ludwig pushed it aside, because Gilbert had always been a little moody.

A little weird sometimes.

Lately more than usual, it seemed, and sometimes Ludwig would look up to see Gilbert staring at him in a manner that almost looked disheartened, and sad. And Ludwig could never figure out exactly what he had done wrong.

Gilbert was just strange.

"Aren't you hungry?" Gilbert pressed, when he sat there, still. "C'mon, I'll try my hand at cookin' for once. Huh?"

Well.

"Alright," he conceded, and they moved into the kitchen, and Ludwig could not _help_ but notice that Gilbert seemed nervous and shifty. Anxious. It was hard not to, no matter how hard he tried.

Hell, maybe he'd done something wrong again.

Gilbert tried his best to cook something edible, and Ludwig noticed that he seemed to be taking his time, with a very great intent. Staring off in space and barely paying attention to what he was doing.

He tried to make small talk, even as unfocused as he was.

"So. Learn anything new today?"

Ludwig, sitting at the table, watched as Gilbert stared firmly at the counter, chopping an onion.

"Ah... I learned a little algebra."

Gilbert gave a quick, "Hm."

Silence.

Ludwig tapped his pencil on the table, and tried not to let Gilbert's moodiness get him down.

The grey skies outside seemed to affect Gilbert more than they did him.

"Are you good at it?"

The question startled him a bit, and he looked up from the table.

"Huh?"

"Algebra," Gilbert elaborated, in a low, quiet voice, "Are you good at it?"

"Not really. Not yet."

"You'll get the hang of it."

Gilbert always did his best.

Dinner came and went in more silence than usual, and Ludwig was ready to get Gilbert down and get his work done.

But as soon as they finished eating, Gilbert found excuse after excuse to delay the inevitable.

He needed to take a bath. He needed to take a nap. He wanted to go outside for a bit. He was too tired to talk. He was thirsty. He wanted to have a drink first.

It was frustrating, and somewhat unnerving, and he hated it when Gilbert evaded his attempts to engage in personal conversation. It made the pessimistic side of his mind wary, and he hated the mistrust that sometimes fleeted within him.

Gilbert tried his best, but sometimes whatever it was he was doing just didn't feel right.

Something seemed _wrong_, sometimes.

Gilbert was so shifty.

It was not until late in the afternoon that Ludwig finally ended the game of cat and mouse and cornered Gilbert with pen and paper, bombarding him with questions, that he finally got his brother to speak.

He didn't really have much of a choice. He was kind of cornered.

Gilbert just leaned back against the wall, hands in his pockets, and looked a little pale.

"Well! Let's get this over with."

Funny.

Ludwig had been so sure that Gilbert would have been eager to do this, if only to stoke his ego a little.

"Alright. Well, first thing's first. What kind of law is it you practice, exactly?"

Some part of him felt silly that he did not already know these things about his own brother, but Gilbert never talked about work even when he asked, so how could he? Gilbert was strangely tight-lipped when it came to work.

Strange, as loud as he was about everything else.

Gilbert cleared his throat, heaved a great sigh, and began.

"It's mostly property disputes, ah, civil cases, you know."

Ludwig nodded as he wrote, barely noticing that Gilbert was chewing mercilessly on his thumbnail, foot tapping on the floor as he glanced up at the clock.

"How many clients do you get every year?"

"Ah... A hundred, give or take."

"Are they hard cases?"

"Not all of them."

"How many times are the cases settled out of court?"

Ludwig's pencil was scratching furiously, and Gilbert laughed; a strange, thin sound. "All these questions! You could be a lawyer some day too, you know?"

Ludwig looked up at him, smiling breathlessly at Gilbert's praise. "You think so? I don't know, it seems like a lot of work."

"Yeah," Gilbert said, his eyes unreadable and face somehow tense. "Yeah it is."

All of a sudden, as he was scribbling away, Gilbert reached out, and placed a heavy hand on the top of his head.

"That it?"

An almost desperate question.

For a moment, distracted by the warmth of Gilbert's hand and the tone of his voice, Ludwig would have liked nothing more than to toss the papers aside and leap into Gilbert's arms.

He hated seeing Gilbert looking anything other than obnoxiously confident.

But duty called.

"Just one more. What year did you graduate law school?"

"Ah."

The air suddenly seemed a little chilly.

Now Gilbert fell silent, as if deep in thought, and when he spoke he began to stammer. "It was, ah... Nineteen-o-three. No! No, it was, um, nineteen-o-one. Yeah. That's right." As Ludwig watched him with a furrowed brow, he began to shift about, resting his chin in his hand. "I got out in... No. That's not right. I got out in nineteen...seven? What the fuck is the goddamn year? Nineteen-o-five. That's it. That sounds right. Maybe..."

Gilbert just shook his head to himself, and his muttering became incomprehensible.

This uncertain rambling set off a silent alarm in the back of his head and, feeling suddenly uneasy and wary yet again, Ludwig took his paper and backed away, saying, "That's good. I've got enough. Thank you."

Gilbert did not seem to hear him, looking straight at the wall as he continued to mutter incoherently to himself.

"...dammit, that doesn't even make sense. That's way off. Let me think..."

Chest tight, Ludwig retreated into his room, shutting the door behind him as he attempted to escape the nagging doubt that chased him. Sitting down on his bed, he tried to clear his mind and began to write, stringing together a choppy essay that was uncharacteristically bad for someone so meticulous, but he just couldn't seem to focus, and quickly found himself stopping every minute or so.

Something just seemed so wrong.

He hated that feeling.

Gilbert.

He loved Gilbert. Adored him. Depended on him. He lived for Gilbert.

But he didn't _trust_ Gilbert.

And that hurt, above all else.

Time passed in a blur of annoyance and nausea and worry, as he shifted back and forth on the bed and put his paper down and picked it up and put it down. He couldn't seem to think. At least about anything other than Gilbert, and what he was hiding.

Gilbert was lying.

To _him_.

Gilbert claimed that he would do anything for him. That he loved him. And yet he couldn't just tell him the truth.

Unacceptable.

Tired and irritated and feeling sick, Ludwig looked up at the clock, and was surprised.

It was already eleven. Far past his bed time.

No wonder he was in such a bad mood.

"I'm probably just tired," he grumbled to himself as he pulled himself to his feet, and set the folder aside. Time to rest a bit, and get to sleep.

He had until Monday morning to complete this task, and perhaps Gilbert was just having a bad night...

Everyone had bad nights.

He turned off the light, crawled in bed, and went to sleep.

He _wanted_ to trust Gilbert, for he had no one else.

Gilbert was everything.

The night grew darker, the moon was rising above the snow clouds, and his sleep was fitful and restless. Unusual; he had always been a heavy sleeper. Nothing stirred him once he was out, not even God or the Devil or a damn earthquake, as Gilbert put it, but his unease perhaps had left him in a vulnerable state, for the closing of a door awoke him hours later.

Just a click.

It was enough.

Sitting up, chest heavy and startled, he looked blearily up at the clock when his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

Two in the morning.

He swore that he had heard the front door close.

And in the middle of the night, that was not usually a good thing.

Pulling himself to his feet, he opened his own door, warily, poking his head out and whispering, "Gilbert?" There was no response, and he stepped into the living room, feeling the first prick of alarm.

Had someone come in?

Everything was dark.

His socked feet made no sound as he moved about stealthily, and he climbed the stairs, slipping into Gilbert's room, anxiously.

"Gilbert? Wake up, I think..."

He trailed off when he turned on the light, and turned around.

The bed was empty.

Gilbert was gone.

His fright turned into agitation so quickly that it made his head hurt, and he dropped his arms loose at his sides, muttering irritably to himself, "_Really_, Gilbert?"

Really?

He went back down the stairs, checking every room, every bathroom, every closet, and confirmed beyond a doubt that his brother was, indeed, gone.

Gone.

It was always like this with Gilbert. Why so many secrets? What exactly _was_ it that was going on, that Gilbert could not confide in him? He told his brother everything, but he was not extended the same courtesy. It was painful, and frustrating, but some part of him almost didn't want to know.

Maybe it was better not to know.

He had thought at first that perhaps it was just a gambling addiction, when Gilbert came home that morning chased by the police. Underground gambling was illegal, so that made sense. But, he quickly realized, gamblers always _lost_ money, and every time Gilbert walked through the door it was with expensive things and pockets full of Marks.

So, if it wasn't gambling, it had to be something even _more_ illegal, and that was frightening. Why would he need to, when he was already a well-to-do lawyer? This huge house, the expensive school, the shameless outings...

Why risk them so?

Why risk _him_, and his confidence?

It was not normal, these late night excursions, and it wasn't safe.

Gilbert was up to something.

Losing Gilbert was not something he could fathom, and he felt his patience waning.

He _deserved_ to know.

Maybe he wasn't a child, not anymore, but at this moment he certainly wanted to act like one, and he thrust out his leg in a moment of fury and kicked Gilbert's dresser as hard as he could. It shuddered with the force, and damn if his toe didn't hurt like a son of a bitch afterwards, and the bottom drawer opened, just a centimeter.

He pulled his foot up into the air to cradle it in his hands as he hissed and cursed, and for a moment he almost didn't notice the drawer had come open at all.

Christ, if he'd broken a toe, he was gonna give Gilbert all kinds of hell.

Once the pain started to dull and he could open his mouth without spewing every curse he'd ever heard Gilbert utter, he looked down and saw the gaping drawer.

As he bent down automatically to correct this ill-alignment, as was his nature, he paused thoughtfully, hands gripping the teak.

Well. Gilbert's privacy.

And yet...

"I'm not that nosy," he reassured himself, and hesitated, both wanting and fearing to look inside. But in the end, his curiosity won out over his conscience, and he pulled the drawer open, reaching his hands down into his brother's belongings for the first time.

He immediately wished he had not.

Feeling something cool and smooth beneath a folded shirt, he pulled out a bulging wallet, so packed over its limit that it fell open on its own.

Inside were cards.

Looking over his shoulder, just to make sure that Gilbert wasn't sneaking up on him, he could already feel the dread.

Something was always wrong with Gilbert.

He turned his attention back to the wallet and pulled the cards out, one after the other, and realized they were IDs.

The dread turned into horror.

Card after card.

And they kept coming.

There were so many he would not even attempt to count them, and every one had a different name. A different photo. A different hair color. A different age. A different address.

But the face was Gilbert's.

So many Gilberts.

Ha. Somehow, he wasn't surprised. Gilbert could change mood and tone and attitude so quickly...

How could it ever surprise him that he could change identity as well?

Absolute devastation.

That Gilbert was not who he said he was.

That maybe he knew absolutely nothing about the man who sat in front of him at the kitchen table and reached out to run a hand down his cheek in moments of fondness.

Gilbert.

A sudden, horrible thought :

Maybe Gilbert wasn't even his real name.

Oh, God.

Ludwig fell back on his haunches onto the floor, clutching the cards in his hands as his heart began to race and his blood rose. He could not comprehend. Why would Gilbert need false IDs, and so many? It didn't make sense.

He felt the awful churning in his stomach, already feeling betrayed without knowing exactly why.

Gilbert had lied to him. Probably about everything.

He pulled himself to his feet after a great struggle, put the cards back where he found them, and left the room as quickly as he could.

He was afraid to see what else lay in there.

The horror turned into anger.

Staggering down the stairs, he thought of his options.

Options. Like he could really do something about this. Like he could ever change Gilbert. Stubborn, loud, thick-headed Gilbert.

Yeah, right.

So what could he do?

Options.

Confronting Gilbert was absolutely not one of them; Gilbert would fly off the handle and into an absolute rage, and would probably stalk out after a very aggressive fight, and he would accomplish nothing. He could not try to snoop any more on his own here; he was not quite brave enough, and Gilbert was too clever. He could not ask around; he knew no one.

So.

How could he find out what his brother was up to?

Dumb Gilbert.

Why couldn't he just tell the truth? Why couldn't he just explain himself?

Gilbert gave away nothing, and asked for everything.

Just lies. All he ever got. Nothing more. Nothing less.

As the night began to recede, he retreated into his room after hours of pacing the living room, saying nothing to Gilbert in the morning when he 'woke up' and waiting for the next opportunity.

Enough was enough. This was it. No more.

He was tired of getting nothing. He was tired of being lied to. He was tired of being left in the dark. He was tired of not knowing.

He was tired of _Gilbert_.

So he waited.

When Gilbert left tonight, he would follow him, and learn the truth, once and for all.

He was tired.

* * *

"One for you, three for me."

There were few things in the world gloomier than the underbelly of a monstrous city, particularly one that was the scale of Berlin. The homeless and destitute, the criminal and the victim, and those with something to hide, slunk through the alleyways, avoiding the light at all costs.

Gilbert did not fear the light. He just didn't _care_ for it.

Night was his time.

A calm, confident voice rang out in the darkness of an abandoned warehouse, creating an echo that bounced around in the eerie lime glow of street lamps.

A home for dishonest men.

"One for you, three for me."

And, well, Gilbert sure as hell fit that description.

He sat at a poorly constructed table, counting out a large pile of Marks that he was dutifully dividing into two stacks. All around him were strange, heavy crashes, and one would need only a second to realize that he was surrounded by metal cages. In each of them, barking and snarling, fangs bared, stood muscular dogs, hot breath visible in the cold night air, and they slammed themselves without thought against the doors, thinking only of reaching their brethren.

Gilbert eyed them evenly, silver hair tinted green in the sickly light.

As if they could do him any harm, the way they were locked up.

One of the canines let out a strangled howl, and he turned back to his money, mindless of their blood-thirst. "Man," he said lowly to himself, "this is my best haul yet. You hear that, Fido?" He looked over his shoulder, catching the eye of a dog, and smiled. "Here's your cut. One for you..." He patted the small pile with emphasis. "And three more for Gilbert."

The dog tilted its head to the side, curiously, and Gilbert waved it off.

Dumb mutt.

He was surprised the damn things were as expensive as they were.

"On second thought...better be all for me!"

Laughing, he reached out and scooped the money deftly into his pockets, feeling pretty damn good about himself. The dog behind let out a muffled whimper, and Gilbert stood, adding, "No hard feelings, huh? You'd just eat it anyway."

He had almost outdone himself this time.

The air was freezing.

Looking around, rubbing his hands up and down his arms to keep warm, he decided to just go for it.

He turned on his heel and ambled off, exploring the enormous warehouse with an eagle eye. This was where he had been instructed to leave these beasts after he had procured them from a sleazy dealer on the French border. His client, equally sleazy, was a (supposedly) professional dog-fighter, in need of new stock. And Gilbert had delivered well.

Very well.

The crude, blood-stained wooden pens were only mildly distasteful to him. This place was more like some kind of torture chamber, rather than a warehouse, but...

Business was business. He'd seen worse things.

While he was waiting for the owner to come and claim them, why not look around and see if he had anything in here to nick? The more, the merrier, after all.

Passing a wall covered with muzzles and stained breakup sticks, he caught sight of a cupboard in the corner that looked hopeful. Sneaking up silently, he opened each drawer swiftly, and was disappointed when he found nothing of particular value. But as he shut the small door, he could swear that he had heard something.

And it wasn't the dogs.

It was footsteps, light and hollow, and he lifted his head, eyes and ears alert.

He knew his business well, and no one snuck up on him.

No one.

He slunk back over, keeping his own steps absolutely silent as he approached the front of the warehouse.

The steps stopped and started, as if examining the building.

Whoever it was, they were not inside, but just outside the door. Close enough to cause trouble.

Had they heard the barking? In this supposedly empty place? That could be...inconvenient.

He clenched his fists at his sides when the footsteps drew closer.

Alarmingly close.

A noise, as if someone were fiddling with the door.

Oh.

Shit.

He could not afford to lose this shipment. Not one this large, and not one this profitable. He had only received a third of the payment; the rest of it was dependent on his ability to keep the cargo safe.

And goddammit, that money was his.

One way or another.

He stood there, still and breathless, and _Christ_! Wouldn't those fuckin' dogs stop _barking_?

Another noise.

It happened.

The warehouse door began to creak as someone gripped the handle, and Gilbert slunk forward, pulling a small knife from his pocket as he found his footing.

Mostly show.

He would not kill this nosy jerk, but hell, _they_ did not know that, and he was intent on scaring the living daylights out of them and securing the location, at least for the night.

That was all he needed.

He settled on the side, and waited.

This punk was about to have a bad, bad night.

The creaking suddenly stopped, and for a second, he thought they had changed their mind and gone. But then the door pushed open, hesitantly, and someone stood in the frame. Gilbert did not speak, staying in place as this intruder took a step inside. He did not see Gilbert, standing behind him with crossed arms, and a sharp intake of breath alerted him that his eyes had adjusted enough to see the scene.

No doubt a room full of killer dogs was enough to cause nightmares.

Gilbert, standing back in the shadows, observed.

It looked like a man, his height, completely covered head to toe in a thick coat, face bathed in darkness as he stood there. He was completely unrecognizable, but Gilbert saw no threat in terms of strength. Pretty skinny, even from beneath the coat, and his visible hands were pale and slender.

The hands of good breeding, not those of a criminal.

No problem.

He acted, and took a step forward.

"Curiosity killed the cat," he drawled lowly, and the man turned, startled, and Gilbert's knife gleamed in the light.

Still couldn't see his face, hidden by his coat, but his stance alone was that of surprise.

Good.

He expected cowering, begging, even a clumsy, desperate assault, but what he got was a foot chase.

Turning on his heel, the man bolted through the warehouse, and Gilbert gave chase. But _damn_, was he _fast_.

Too fast.

For a horrible second, as he ducked and dodged around Gilbert with the nimbleness of a deer, he thought the man would actually be able to outrun him and escape, and then the game would be over, as he would no doubt go straight to the police. They doubled back, and Gilbert slipped, and the man jumped over him, running out of the open door as fast as he could.

Oh, shit.

He couldn't let him get away, and, panting, Gilbert ran out after him, lungs stinging as they hit the freezing night air. Looking around, he saw a shadow on the horizon, and followed with a sharp left. But now the tables turned, and it was the other man who slipped in the snow, skidding in the ice, and Gilbert caught up to him just as he was slipping (literally) into an alley.

Reaching out, he managed to grab the hood of the coat, just by a millimeter.

He could see his breath in the air.

A moment of stopped time.

The fabric was in his hand.

He dug his fingers in, and ripped the man back, slamming the unwelcome visitor onto his back hard enough to knock the breath out of him.

A dull thud, and a wheeze of pain.

There it was.

The chase was over.

He had won.

The burn of victory and adrenaline fought off the freezing air, and flushed his cheeks.

He almost smiled.

And when Gilbert turned around and looked down at him, knife ready and legs braced, he felt a horrid jolt of nausea and despair, and time froze.

Everything stopped.

Even his breath seemed to stop showing in the cold.

Silence.

He couldn't seem to hear anything, not even his own heart.

Nothing.

The burn of victory dulled. Adrenaline evaporated. Everything was too damn cold.

Cold.

Staring up at him from the icy street, gasping for breath and forehead covered in cold sweat, hair shining white in the moonlight and fingers digging into the snow, lied Ludwig.

Ludwig.

Even from a distance, there was no missing the accusation and betrayal in his eyes.

Ludwig.

Why? Oh, Christ in heaven, _why_ had he come out here?

Ludwig's eyes were as white as his hair as the moon hit them.

Gilbert just stood there, and stared down at him.

He could not breathe. He could not move.

God, that look. He couldn't bear that look. Ludwig had never looked at him like _that_ before.

Not like that.

He was frozen in horror, mind going blank, and then the realization of what he had _done_ hit him with the force of a train, and he began to tremble so terribly that the knife slipped from his fingers.

The clatter was barely audible through the whooshing in his ears.

His head hurt.

Ludwig didn't say a word, still staring at him, and he fell to his knees on the hard pavement, moaning in misery, "Oh _God_, oh God, oh _no_." He reached out, grabbing Ludwig's face in his hands in a desperate need to touch. "Are you alright? Oh, God, you're not hurt, you can't be hurt."

If he had hurt Ludwig, he'd curl up and die.

Ludwig didn't talk.

Oh, wouldn't he say _something_?

Anything.

"Are you alright? Oh, c'mon, you're not hurt, are you? Tell me you're not hurt, I didn't hurt you, I know I didn't!"

He was crying in earnest now, all composure gone, grabbing Ludwig's shoulders and shaking him savagely as the fury came rising up.

Dumb Ludwig.

He should never have come out here.

Never.

"You! How could you? Do you know how I could have hurt you? Don't you know what could have _happened_ to you? _Do you_? Why can't you ever listen to me? _Why_? How could you? You're so stupid! You're so fuckin' _stupid_ you little son of a bitch! How many times have I told you not to worry about it? Why don't you listen? Why don't you ever fuckin' _listen_? Stupid! You! You _idiot_! I could just strangle you, I swear I could! You stupid brat! How..."

Anger dissolved into absolute shame. Never had he felt such shame.

Not even back then.

Ludwig just stared at him.

Too much.

He'd fucked up. In the worst way possible.

He'd lost Ludwig's confidence.

He bowed his head, words lost to his clenched throat as despair became overwhelming, sobbing as his world came crashing down.

He couldn't ever take this back.

Ludwig only stared at him through narrowed eyes, and he felt the guilt come flooding in, overtaking even the awful hurt and horror.

"_Oh_. What have I done?" he groaned, mostly to himself, and as he sat there, hands clenching his hair, Ludwig finally spoke.

His voice was soft and emotionless and icy; not his own.

A whisper.

"You're not a lawyer, are you?"

Gilbert's hands fell to his sides, and he looked down at Ludwig, feeling his eyes heavy and bleary. He opened his mouth, lost his voice, and could only shake his head, once.

Years of lies, gone like smoke.

Confidence gone. Trust broken.

Ludwig knew. Nothing would ever be the same.

There was a derisive scoff, and Ludwig stood up before him, legs shaky, grunting, "I should have known."

It hurt.

Gilbert watched him, too ashamed of himself to even try and hold onto him as he reached his full height, and Ludwig turned his back, arms loose at his sides as he whispered, "I'm so... I can't believe I... You..."

Incomprehensible muttering.

Ludwig stopped, and fell still, head bowed.

Gilbert was glad, for a moment, that he couldn't see Ludwig's face.

Silence.

Never had he seen Ludwig look so _defeated_.

Far too cold and very numb, Gilbert could only murmur, thickly, "I'm...so sorry."

The wrong thing to say. It set Ludwig off like a bomb.

"You're not _sorry_!" Ludwig roared, as he rounded on Gilbert like a wolf, kicking the snow in anger. "You're _never_ sorry for _anything_! I can't believe I _trusted_ you! I can't believe you _lied_ to me! I asked you! You promised me! You promised me that you weren't _hurting_ anyone!"

He'd never heard Ludwig shout.

Not ever.

The sound of it was alarming.

Broken promises.

Ha... What else was new? Didn't Ludwig understand that breaking promises was really the only thing he had ever been good at?

He didn't say a word in his defense. He didn't even have any.

Ludwig reached up and clenched his fists in his hair, pacing back and forth in a rage as he tried to control his breathing, absolute fury incarnate, and he cried to no one, "I'm so _stupid_! How I ever could have just _believed_ you! You're right about one thing, you know? I _am_ stupid! I'm _so_ stupid!"

Gilbert hung his head, and Ludwig finally stalked off into the street, leaving his brother broken behind him.

There could be no turning back from this.

It was over. All of it.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, long after Ludwig was gone, and, sitting in the snow and ignoring the bitter wind, he realized he had lost the only family he had ever had.

Ludwig was gone.

He was alone.

And as he wallowed in a pool of self-pity in a dirty alley, he couldn't have known that Ludwig was tearing the house apart, searching for the letters Gilbert had hidden away from him for the past year.

Something had to change.

Over.


	5. 1911  2

Chapter 4

**1911**

Dusty light streamed in through icy windows.

_I'm so stupid!_

Everything was blurry.

_You promised!_

His head was pounding so hard that he thought it would explode, and when he finally moved, throwing his head and shoulders off the edge of the wooden boards he was using as a bed, Gilbert thought he would pass out from the pain.

Christ, such pain.

An inferno in his head.

With a groan, he reached up and clutched at his hair, unable to even open his eyes.

He did not remember where he was. He did not know what day it was.

Inhaling deeply to gather his strength, he flipped over, trying to roll onto his stomach, but he succeeded only in falling heavily onto a hard floor.

May as well have fallen onto a pile of razorblades.

"_God_! God...dammit," he whimpered, as his head split open in agony and spots of white lit up behind his eyelids, and with immense effort he finally opened his eyes.

Everything was black.

It took a moment, as he lied there on the floor, writhing this way and that, for his vision to clear.

When it did, he almost wished it hadn't.

He wasn't in his bed at home. And Ludwig wasn't here.

He was in a dusty, weathered room, and almost didn't recognize it, at first, as the abandoned house he used when the occasion called for it. It was cold, and damp. The air was stale.

With a grunt, he flopped over and squinted in the sun that came in through the frosted windows.

How long had he been here? He couldn't remember.

Pulling himself up onto his knees, he looked about the room, noting immediately the empty bottles of alcohol strewn about.

Well. That explained a lot.

And it didn't surprise him.

He remembered vaguely the events that had led him here, and was ashamed.

His heart ached, and Christ, that look in Ludwig's eyes...

Hate.

He hated himself, too.

That was why he had holed up here with enough alcohol to kill a horse. To try and forget that horrible way that Ludwig had looked at him.

How had it ever come to this?

Not so long ago, he had stood side by side with Ludwig in the bathroom, showing him how to work a razor and shoving shaving cream all over his face and into his hair.

Those times were long gone.

Ludwig knew the truth now.

Ludwig hated him now.

Looking to the window, he saw that sun was high in the horizon. It was noon, perhaps. Time to get the hell out of here. Hauling himself to his feet, he staggered out of the house and into the crowded streets, haggard and hung-over and miserable. He would go home, now, and fall to his knees and beg forgiveness from Ludwig.

He owed him that, at least. But if it was not granted, he would understand.

But oh, he needed to be forgiven.

Ludwig would probably just slam the door in his face.

The snow had stopped falling.

He trudged through the city, realizing exactly how awful he looked when he passed the glass windows of the shops. His hair was dirty and unkempt, dark circles under his eyes like shadows, clothes wrinkled and stained, his skin ashy. He looked like a ghost. If nothing else, he thought humorlessly, maybe Ludwig would forgive him out of sheer pity.

If not, he did not know what he would do with himself.

Ludwig meant everything.

Ludwig was the world.

He left the bustling city behind and fumbled his way into the quiet community.

With every step, the dread intensified.

If Ludwig truly hated him, he would just die.

A worse thought nagged him.

He'd been gone for who knew how long; what if Ludwig had run away?

Oh God, oh Christ, if Ludwig had run away and left a note that he was never coming back, he would go and throw himself into the Spree.

If Ludwig had gone, then there was nothing left.

The house was visible in the distance.

He sped up.

Staggering up to the house, holding his head and fighting off nausea, was the hardest thing he had ever done. Worse was the malformed apology in his head, and the possibility of Ludwig rejecting him. But he had to try. He couldn't run forever.

He tried to remain hopeful, no matter how bleak, and Ludwig never _could_ hold grudges.

Ludwig couldn't ever stay mad.

So he _had_ to forgive him.

Right?

Quickening his pace, full of longing and desperation to see Ludwig's face, his reason for being, his _brother_, he began to feel the first tugs of a smile on his lips.

Ludwig couldn't stay mad.

It had to be alright. Had to be.

But when he could finally see the house in the distance, his heart sank into his stomach, and his ghost of a smile vanished.

There was a car in the drive.

And he recognized it.

Even after all these years.

"Oh _no_. No, no, no," he moaned helplessly to himself, and ran as fast as his unsteady legs would allow him, clutching at his chest as his heart started to race. He was _seeing_ things. He had to be. Because that could not be Roderich's car, and that could not be Ludwig's suitcase on the porch.

No way.

There was no way.

When he stumbled up the steps and burst through the front door, his world stopped.

Everything.

Dead.

"It'll be alright."

No air.

"I know. It's just..."

He found himself frozen there, in the doorframe, walking into the middle of something he had obviously been expected not to.

Roderich.

It was him.

And he was standing there, in _his_ house, with Ludwig at his side.

A nightmare.

They trailed off at his sudden appearance, Roderich well-dressed, with perfect posture and poise and that same air of undeserved self-satisfaction, and Ludwig stood there beside of him, looking run-down and distressed.

Roderich's hand suddenly fell heavily on Ludwig's shoulder, stirring Gilbert from his stupor.

Roderich had no right.

Roderich had had his turn.

"Get out of my house," he rasped, voice low and dangerous, but Roderich did not, and turned to look at him in distaste. They stared at each other in a moment of aggression, and Gilbert wanted nothing more than to start a fight. Only Ludwig standing there kept him still.

And when Roderich finally opened his mouth, it was to lecture.

What else was new?

"Where have you been?" he began, in that haughty Vienna accent that Gilbert so hated. "I arrived this morning and Ludwig was alone. He said you've been gone for three days. How could you have left him here alone for all that time? He's too young. It's too dangerous. Why can't you think these things through? You're just the same as you always were! Reckless, irresponsible! What if something had happened to him? You haven't changed at all. I'm not surprised."

Roderich's violet eyes burned into his own, dismissive and disdainful, and he felt the anger rise.

Fuckin' jerk.

"How... How _dare _you!" he cried, stomping his foot as his head began to pound in agony. "How dare you! I've done _everything _for him! Everything! What right do you have to show up at _my_ house, unannounced, and—"

"Gilbert," Ludwig interrupted, and Gilbert trailed off his tirade at the knowing smirk on Roderich's face.

His stomach churned.

What did Roderich know that he did not?

It quickly became obvious.

Ludwig straightened up as stiff as a board, arms rigid at his side, and his look was stern.

His voice, however, was not quite as confident as he looked.

"Gilbert, I— _I_ called him. I told him to come get me." Ludwig met his eyes now, and there was no guilt there. None. "It's not his fault. It's my decision. And I don't think I need to be here with you now. I need some time."

The words were daggers, and he fell back, hurt.

So hurt.

"You _called_ him?" he whispered, accusingly.

He couldn't believe it.

That it had ever come to this.

"What else could he do?" Roderich observed. "You left. As if he had a choice. What if you hadn't come back? What would he have done?" Roderich turned to Ludwig and added, softly, "It's alright. Go finish putting your things away. I'll take care of this."

A short silence, and then Ludwig obeyed, and when he passed Gilbert he looked over at him, observationally, and muttered, quickly, "Sorry."

But Ludwig wasn't sorry. Because Ludwig was right.

He was right. Gilbert had failed.

Ludwig had no reason to be sorry. Ludwig had done nothing wrong.

He could not respond, cold and numb, and only stared at the floor despondently. When Ludwig was gone, he heard Roderich take a step towards him, and shook his head as misery came rising up.

"How could you?" he groaned, miserably, "How could you come here? You don't understand what he means to me."

A scoff.

"How could I not come?" Roderich threw back. "After all those things you said so many years ago... You never wanted him, so why shouldn't I take him now? And what's more..." His voice turned acidic and resentful, and it stung as much as Ludwig's shouting ever had. "He doesn't remember me! He doesn't remember _anything_! He said he had an accident, but he doesn't even know what the hell _happened_. You see, what kind of trouble you bring? Why didn't you protect him when you had the chance? All you had to do was take him when I asked you."

Now Gilbert raised his head, defeated and guilty and feeling the tears that were threatening to come. "I didn't... I couldn't... I never thought he would _follow_ me here."

He had never meant for any harm to come to Ludwig.

He hadn't ever wanted that.

How could he have known that Ludwig would seek him out?

Roderich carried on with his berating.

"You never think about the consequences of your actions. Didn't I find you a job? Didn't I? Didn't I give you the opportunity to live an honest life here with him? I provided all of that! I made everything so simple for you. I went out of my way for you. And you just... You didn't even..."

Roderich broke off, shaking his head in exasperation.

"I should _never_ have asked you to take him. I won't ever forgive myself for that. You were right, you know? You're _not_ cut out to be anyone's big brother. When I look back on it, I can't ever even remember what possessed me to even ask you. You were never fit for such a role. Ludwig deserved better than _you_."

A point of finality.

Pulling his coat up and clearing his throat, Roderich brushed past Gilbert with every intention of leaving his former charge to wallow in despair behind him, but when he was crossing the threshold, Gilbert reached out and grabbed his arm.

Meeting Roderich's bright, alert eyes with his own bleary ones, he whispered, "Will you at least tell him that I love him?"

There was a heavy silence, and for a moment he thought Roderich would refuse, and say that Ludwig didn't _need_ his love, but finally he said, thinly, "I'll consider it," and broke away.

Gilbert slumped in defeat.

Spent. He was exhausted. He just wanted to go to sleep.

Ludwig was leaving.

And he probably wouldn't ever come back.

As Roderich walked down the steps, Gilbert leaned heavily against the doorframe and stared out at the glossy car waiting outside. The exhaust rose up in the cold air, as the driver waited patiently in the front. Ludwig was already in the backseat, staring at him intensely through the foggy glass. Roderich moved in next to him, and the slamming of the door startled him from his numbness, back into a horrible reality.

Ludwig was leaving.

A reality where 'we' had become 'me' and Ludwig was no longer in the equation.

A reality where he had lost.

He could not bear losing.

Not Ludwig.

A reality where he was alone.

Worthless.

Oh, God. Ludwig was _leaving_.

He could have died.

He came out of his immobility, and stood up straight.

Ludwig was still staring at him.

He found his feet.

He couldn't live without Ludwig.

This was not an option.

Roderich couldn't take him.

"Wait," he called, when the car began to lurch forward, and his voice was so weak and scratchy that it barely came out at all. "_Wait_!" He ran down the steps the second he could move, reaching the car and banging his fists against the side. "Stop!" On the other side of the door, Ludwig raised his hand and placed it against the glass, gaze sad, but determined. Gilbert, desperate, put his palms against Ludwig's, moaning, "I'm sorry!"

But the car did not stop, and soon he was having trouble keeping up. "Roderich! _Stop_! You can't take him!" He fell behind, Ludwig watching him through the rear window, and he cried, in one last, desperate effort, "Don't take my little brother! _Please_!"

The car pulled onto the street, and in a second was gone.

"Stop..."

Too late.

He was alone.

He fell to his knees, digging his elbows into the mud, head hung in despair.

"Come back," he moaned to no one, and with a great shudder he burst into tears.

He had nothing.

Ludwig was gone.

It was all over.

He wanted to die.

* * *

Well.

It wasn't ever too late, right? Never too late to reconnect with lost family.

It should be a happy occasion, shouldn't it?

Or he had thought so, anyway, when he had been riding out to Berlin so eagerly. He had thought that he would be playing the role of a sudden hero, coming in and whisking Ludwig (who was undoubtedly _longing_ for rescue, surely) away from an irresponsible, neglectful guardian, but...

It was more than uncomfortable.

Kind of dreary, actually.

Silent.

Reaching up and running a hand through his hair, Roderich realized that there was going to be very little in the way of conversation, and Ludwig's gloomy mood was only making things more awkward. Glancing over at the teen with a furrowed brow, he tried to make small talk, as the busy city blocks gave way to secluded forests.

"Ludwig, it's wonderful to see you again."

It was.

Ludwig had _grown_.

It had struck him like a bolt of lightening, when he had stepped through that door and saw Ludwig for the first time. Older and taller and alarmingly close to adulthood, he had been barely recognizable. Hell, as Roderich observed him now, he even noticed that Ludwig had stubble on his cheeks.

A far cry from the little eight-year-old child that he had known so long ago.

How strange.

"It's been so long."

Ludwig finally looked up, looking tired and sad and almost despondent.

For a moment, he was caught under Ludwig's eyes.

He had almost forgotten, after all these years, how piercing those white-blue eyes could be.

He did not miss the flash of unease that crossed Ludwig's face then, and he understood that it must have been very strange, being so well known to someone who was (to him, in this state) a complete stranger.

"I'm sorry," he began, politely. "I just can't remember."

"I know," Roderich quickly offered. "It's not _your_ fault."

He fell silent, and Ludwig whispered, head bowed, "It's not Gilbert's fault either."

Ah.

Right.

"I'm sure," he said, and deciding that he was treading on thin ice, he changed the subject. "I've taken care of everything, so...please don't worry."

Ludwig looked up again, and Roderich shifted uneasily under his intense gaze.

Ludwig was so different now. He regretted that he had missed seeing him grow up.

"What about school?"

"I've informed them that you will no longer be enrolled." He patted the briefcase next to him, and added, "I have your transcripts, so... You can start again in Vienna. When you're ready. It's not a problem."

"Oh."

Ludwig said nothing more, turning and leaning his forehead against the window with a sigh. Roderich fell back into the seat, and could not help but feel as though this should have gone differently. Ludwig should have been _happy_ to be going to Austria, by all rights, but he seemed more like he was on his way to a funeral.

How...depressing.

He had, perhaps, done something wrong.

Maybe he was being too insensitive. Bad timing was a habit of his.

Trying to be more supportive, he reached out and placed a hand reassuringly on Ludwig's shoulder, saying, "Don't feel like you've done anything wrong. You'll...like it in Vienna. You really will. And Erzsébet will be so happy to see you." Ludwig did not look at him, and he added, desperately, "I'm sure that Gilbert can come and visit...sometimes. If you want."

He was uncertain of the truthfulness of this declaration, as even the thought of letting Gilbert near his home was enough to make him grind his teeth, but Ludwig only shook his head, muttering, "He won't come. He hates me now."

And with that, he buried his face in his arms and struggled not to cry.

Damn.

Some help _he_ was.

Uncomfortable, Roderich decided that silence was the better option, and allowed Ludwig to vent his frustrations as he would. Besides, he had never been eloquent in these matters. He'd only put his foot in his mouth again.

The ride to Vienna was long, and they did not speak until they had passed the border into Austria, where Roderich felt more at ease, far out of the territory of Gilbert.

He could bother them no longer. Gilbert was as good as gone.

Good riddance.

"We'll be there soon."

He smiled, and was pleased when Ludwig tried to return the courtesy, however sadly. He admired already the younger's ability to force himself out of a bad situation, and to take such a turn of events in relatively good stride.

He himself could not handle change.

But then, Ludwig had always been very resilient.

Gilbert had not been the beginning of Ludwig, and he would not be the end.

Ludwig would get past this, even if it took some time.

Hours passed.

The forests became dotted with houses, and on the horizon sat the blurry outline of Vienna. His mood was ever improving with every mile put behind them. And Ludwig was raising his head now at the new sights, gawking out of the window and observing his new surroundings.

That was a good sign.

They arrived at the house shortly after, and when they tread up the path, Ludwig stopped, staring up at his new residence with an unreadable expression.

It was isolated here, no other homes visible through the thick trees that grew around the perimeters. A little garden was off to the side; Erzsébet's hobby. Everything was quiet now, and covered in snow. Roderich could see, in a way, how it could seem cold and imposing.

Not home.

He waited patiently and quietly, and after a moment, Ludwig looked at him, serious and rather calm, if not a little sad.

"Your house is beautiful."

Whew. What a relief!

That was a good start.

"Thank you."

He reached out and grabbed the doorknob, holding the door open, and Ludwig passed through with silent steps, only to freeze in his tracks when he came face to face with a beaming Erzsébet, who seemed to have been waiting right in front of the threshold.

A loud, enthusiastic cry.

"You're here!"

And then silence.

Ludwig stared at her in obvious alarm, and she stared right back at him, so happy that she was bouncing up on her heels. Her hands flew up to her mouth as she looked Ludwig up and down, clearly examining him and taking in how much he had grown.

Ludwig was frozen.

It was still hard to accept that Ludwig just didn't know who they _were_ anymore.

How unfair.

Erzsébet didn't know.

Before Roderich could open his mouth and explain the situation, she opened her arms beseechingly, clearly expecting Ludwig to hold fond feelings for her, and took a step forward. "Give me a hug," she cried merrily, emerald eyes bright and happy, but her smile foundered a little when Ludwig shrank back like a startled deer. She stepped forward again, disregarding this strange act, but Ludwig continued to back away until he was forced up against Roderich's chest, and there was nowhere else to go.

He looked over his shoulder, casting a helpless glance at Roderich, who shrugged a shoulder.

Erzsébet's smile had fallen, and she looked a bit disappointed.

Hurt.

"I..."

Erzsébet let her arms fall back down to her sides, and Roderich, wishing to avoid hurt feelings, shoved Ludwig forward, as gently as he could.

"It's alright," he murmured, "You grew up with her too, for a while. This is my wife. She really missed you."

There was an awkward silence, as Erzsébet smiled weakly and with confusion, and maybe some part of Ludwig recognized her, however vaguely, or perhaps he was only being accommodating. Either way, he stepped forward after a moment of immobility, and kissed her politely upon either cheek, and her smile returned.

"I'm so glad you're back," she said, and took his hand, dragging him through the house on an unofficial tour.

Roderich, left alone, heaved a sigh.

Starting all over again. He had not expected this when he had set out. It was like finding Ludwig all over again.

A stranger once again.

Everything. Again, again, again. Introductions. Breaking the ice. Getting to know each other.

People should only have to do this once.

He reached up, ran a hand through his hair, and hauled the suitcases up the stairs.

Hell, they'd done it once before. They could do it again.

Ludwig would be fine. Just fine.

In time.

As the rest of the day passed uneventfully, Roderich could only hope that things would settle in, and they could move on with some sense of normalcy and become some kind of family.

Maybe it was wishful thinking.

That night, Ludwig was led into his room, and he just stood there in the frame, slouched and silent and looking so disheartened, and Roderich couldn't even think of any words that he could possibly say. He had barely even had time to shut the door before Ludwig had sat down on the bed and buried his face in his pillow.

But it was only the first day.

Things would get better.

...right?

Ludwig didn't really speak much. Barely ate. He just floated about, drifting here and there like a ghost.

Erzsébet tried to play the role of mother, but Ludwig was so mature and silent and self-sufficient that her efforts didn't really seem to have much effect. This would have been a dream come true, perhaps, but after so many years of Ludwig being gone, it was a little disappointing that he didn't really interact with them much.

Roderich wouldn't lie; he was a little upset.

More than a little.

Ludwig rarely came out of his room, and the few times that he did, maybe they tried too hard.

Maybe Erzsébet hovered over him too much, and tried too frequently to touch him.

Ludwig didn't seem to be all that bothered by her attention, sitting there quite patiently when she played with his hair or ran hands down his face, but he didn't ever return it, and hugged her only when she requested it.

Maybe he was guilty of hanging over Ludwig too much, too.

Maybe he tried too hard to engage Ludwig in conversation. Whenever Ludwig came into the room, and whenever Erzsébet wasn't with him, Roderich would go up to him and lead him over to the couch and all but force him to sit. But Ludwig didn't speak much, and mostly nodded his head. Roderich pulled him over to the piano a few times, but couldn't ever get him to sit and touch it.

Ludwig was quiet, and distant, but not cold.

He was just trying to settle in and get used to them.

When he did speak, his voice was low and calm. He never really smiled, but he never frowned either.

He was as good-natured as when Roderich had found him the first time, and just as polite.

Just older, and smarter. Maybe wiser.

Maybe Gilbert had made it hard for Ludwig to trust people.

Another reason to add to the very long list of things that he hated about Gilbert.

The days passed all the same.

January ended, and at the beginning of February Roderich finally enrolled Ludwig in the local _Gymnasium_. School was important to Ludwig, and he had stated that he was very much ready to continue. Roderich obliged. Refusing to be outdone by Gilbert, he used his political authority in a rare moment of selfishness to assure that Ludwig would complete the course a year sooner.

He thought that Ludwig would appreciate him.

But Ludwig only nodded, and said, 'Thank you.'

February ended, and Roderich and Erzsébet took Ludwig out into Vienna and showed him the city, trying very hard to pretend like they were his parents.

He thought that Ludwig would go along with it.

But when someone pointed out the good looks of their 'child' and what a pretty family they were, Ludwig was quick to point out that he was not relation.

March was ending, and he took Ludwig on a diplomatic outing to Budapest, and introduced him to the most influential of ambassadors and tried to teach him a little about the world of politics.

He thought Ludwig would admire him.

But Ludwig only smiled.

Winter gave way to spring, flowers bloomed, and yet still Ludwig seemed stuck in a rut. He spoke rarely, he hardly left his room unless directed to do so, and his air was that of perpetual melancholy.

Erzsébet stopped playing mother, and Roderich couldn't help but feel her frustration.

It was hard to keep smiling when Ludwig would not return affection. It wasn't his fault, but it hurt all the same.

He missed the days when Ludwig had followed him around and looked up to him and leapt into his arms at the slightest of prompting.

Days passed.

Ludwig was getting better, sure, but it wasn't really enough.

Erzsébet seemed to take it a little worse than he did. But then again, she had been stressed and overwhelmed for a long, long time. He wouldn't pretend that they had a great marriage.

Strained from years of distance and work and arguments, maybe his bringing Ludwig here had been a mistake, if only in terms of their vows.

But then, Erzsébet had been a driving force behind him hunting Ludwig down. Roderich couldn't help but feel like she was giving up a little too soon.

He didn't understand her as much as he would have liked.

Maybe that was a problem too. Marriage was harder than it looked.

Which may have been why he focused all of his energy on Ludwig, because Ludwig was easier to deal with than Erzsébet was, and Ludwig never argued with him, and Ludwig was low-key and less bull-headed.

Ludwig was easy to handle.

Erzsébet was not.

She saw it too, perhaps, and that was why she stopped hovering over Ludwig and didn't talk to him as much. Because she realized that maybe Ludwig was only going to end up proving a step too far on this already shaky staircase.

They fought a lot now.

Mostly over Ludwig.

It wasn't Ludwig's fault. He hadn't asked for any of this.

Frustration.

Roderich was at his wit's end, every attempt to get to know Ludwig was shot down, and his own stubbornness was starting to _really _endanger his already fragile marriage to Erzsébet, who seemed increasingly resentful at his constant attempts to win Ludwig's affections.

It did not help that his answer to every conversation she tried to have with him always wound up going back to Ludwig.

She shook her head, pursed her lips, and stalked off. She didn't understand. Aside from her, Ludwig had really been the only person he'd ever cared for in his entire life.

It was hard to let that go, and he was certain that he would break through again, as he had before.

And although Erzsébet loved him, it wasn't the same as it had been years ago, and she didn't _need _him, not really, and he longed for the days past when Ludwig had been so dependent on him.

He missed being needed.

He could do things for Ludwig that others could not.

Erzsébet, a grown woman with no fear of the world, didn't need him.

Ludwig did.

But even here, so far away, Gilbert's presence was still felt.

Ludwig wrote a letter every week, like clockwork, and even though Roderich sent them out dutifully, Ludwig still had not received a response. Not a word, after all of these months. It stung a little, to come home with the mail in his hands, and have to see Ludwig's face fall when there was nothing there for him. Roderich found Gilbert's silence shameful, and childish.

Ludwig was not to blame.

Gilbert was at fault for everything.

Spring burst into summer, Erzsébet took off her wedding ring, and an opportunity to improve Ludwig's mood presented itself.

In a surprising way.

He came home late one evening, excited and smiling, and slipped inside, trying to avoid bumping into Erzsébet as he did so. He was unsuccessful, of course, and she was waiting in the hallway as she so often was when he was not home on time.

Maybe she thought that he was avoiding her.

And well...

Maybe he was.

"You're late," she observed, and when she saw the rare smile on his face, she added, warily, "And in such a good mood!"

Awkward.

"Am I?" he quipped, and shifted his weight as she scrutinized him up and down.

A terse silence, and he took the time to look down at her hand, where the pale ring of skin stood out quite dramatically against the dark of her summer tan.

If he had been braver, he might have asked, testily, 'So, d'you sell that thing yet, or are you saving it?'

She probably would have punched him in the nose. Not like she hadn't taken swings at him before.

They stood there in the hall, staring at each other from a distance, and it may as well have been on opposite sides of a vast ocean.

He felt so far away from her, even so close. He hadn't known marriage would ever be this hard.

Harder still when it failed.

He couldn't say that she had been a bad wife, having fulfilled her duties as best as she could for her rather restless spirit. Maybe he had been a bad husband. Maybe they both fell short in communication, and in patience.

Perhaps they had jumped into this all too soon.

She shifted her weight, lifted her chin, and tried to hold a conversation.

"So. What's the occasion?"

He was reluctant to tell her the truth, as thin as this ice already was, but she had to know, sooner or later.

He couldn't just leave her in the dark.

"I have to go away, for a while," he finally said, and the disappointment on her face made his weak smile wane.

"Oh. I had hoped for something else."

What had she expected? For him to spring upon her a second honeymoon? A journey of reconciliation?

Maybe a simple, 'I'm sorry'? His pride was too great for that.

He pushed his glasses up his nose, guilty, and she asked, "How long this time?"

"Eight months. Maybe a year. Maybe a little more."

She paused, thoughtfully, and tried to laugh. "You say it so casually! Such a long time. Why don't you refuse?"

"I can't. You know I can't."

"Shall I accompany you then?"

Why? The way they were now? Stress he didn't need. Arguments he didn't want.

"No. It's no place for you. You'll be safe here at home."

She stayed silent, and he finally forced his feet to move, if only because the way she stared at him made him uncomfortable.

He tried to pass by her, but she took his hand within her own at the last second, and whispered, in an attempt to guilt him into staying, "Who will help Ludwig with his schoolwork?"

And now came the part he had been dreading all along. He didn't want to fight with her, but he could already feel the atmosphere shifting.

She had to know.

"Well," he began, gripping her hand for the first time in a year or so, "Actually... Ludwig will be accompanying me. So, you won't have to worry about him."

Weak words.

"...oh."

Her face was unreadable, seemingly caught between anger and disappointment. Slowly, she withdrew her hand from his, and said, in a tense voice, "Maybe that's for the best." She turned her back to him and began to walk away, but before she reached the door, she stopped and added, "Everything you do from this point can't be just to beat Gilbert."

She didn't understand.

Ludwig meant more than that. Always had.

"That's not it. He needs me."

"So do I," she said, beseechingly, and turned to meet his gaze.

He opened his mouth, and lost his voice. What could he say to her? No answer he had could satisfy her.

Because she _didn't_ need him.

So he just stood there.

Her eyes darkened at his silence, and, shaking her head, she reached for the doorknob.

"Maybe we've just grown apart."

The slam of the door startled him, a painful reminder that he was failing at his marriage more than he had ever thought possible. He was not so irresponsible as to have jumped into a commitment without having every intention of giving it his best effort, but...

Maybe he was not as conscious of her needs as he should be. He hadn't ever paid her enough attention.

But she was at fault, too. She lost her patience with him too easily, and was quick to berate. Her words were sometimes too harsh. He couldn't stand being spoken to like a child.

A mutual destruction of something that had once been a dream.

No fixing it right now.

To take his mind off of his problems, he continued down the hall and up the staircase, walking slowly and deliberately. This spat with Erzsébet was unfortunate, but in all honesty, it could not really dampen the spark of excitement in his chest at having such a surprise for Ludwig.

Getting through to Ludwig was far more satisfying than attempting to appease Erzsébet.

He came to a halt before the door of Ludwig's room, and knocked, gently.

Damn, he was already jittery.

A great feeling after years of gloom.

"It's open," came the muffled reply, and Roderich pushed open the door and poked his head inside.

Ludwig sat at his desk, head rested on folded arms above a pile of schoolwork. When he caught sight of Roderich, he sat up respectfully, taking his pencil in his hand, almost as though he expected to be chastised for resting so lazily.

Roderich could not help but snort.

What a kid.

"Ludwig?"

"Yes?"

Roderich leaned against the doorframe, confident in himself that his surprise would drag Ludwig out of his depression, and tried his best not to smirk.

Kind of hard, though.

"How was your day? Was school okay?"

"It was alright," Ludwig said, and rested his chin in his palm, twirling his pencil on the desk despondently. "I just... I don't really know anyone yet."

"Give it time," Roderich offered, and came over to the desk, resting against the wall. "All good things to those who wait, right?" Ludwig smiled sadly, and Roderich commended his efforts to try and amalgamate into such a different environment. It couldn't be easy.

But Ludwig never complained. Ludwig never asked for anything.

Which only made this all the more thrilling.

"I take it your homework isn't exactly enthralling."

Ludwig smiled for a minute there, and almost laughed.

"Well! You know. It's, ah, math. I'm not the best."

"Something we can share then."

Ludwig looked up at him, and Roderich noticed that the bridge of his nose seemed to be getting a little sharper every month.

He wondered sometimes how Ludwig had ended up on those streets, when his appearance—from the straightness of his nose to the shape of his brow to the height of his cheekbones and the length of his fingers and even the paleness of his skin—indicated such good breeding.

He couldn't ever imagine parents of such good stock abandoning a son that would carry on a name.

Maybe they had met a bad fate, and Ludwig had been lost to the winds. If so, that was a shame, but one he was thankful for.

Especially right now.

"I have something for you."

The words barely came out, as excited as he was.

Ludwig straightened up, saying immediately, "Oh, no, I don't need anything. Really, I don't."

Polite, as always.

"Nonsense," he countered, and pulled a small item out of his pocket, setting it on the desk with intent. "Besides, it's not like I could just leave you behind."

There was a moment of silence, before Ludwig, reluctantly, looked down.

Roderich waited, holding his breath.

He just wanted Ludwig to be happy.

"I don't understand," Ludwig finally murmured, slowly, as Roderich crossed his arms across his chest. "A passport?" He looked up, and, for the first time since he had arrived in Austria, his eyes were lighting up. "Where are we going?" he asked, and the tremor of excitement in his voice was undeniable.

Success.

He could have just leapt in the air then, for the way he felt.

"German East Africa."

Africa.

The word alone was enough to bring out the hidden adventurer in everyone.

And Ludwig, it seemed, was not immune.

His coolness and despondency went right out of the window, and his smile was wide.

"Really?" he cried, and leapt up from his seat. "I can really go?"

This was better than he had hoped for.

"Of course. I secured a seat for you already."

"When are we leaving?"

"Next week," Roderich answered, and was pleased that, finally, he had done something to illicit a favorable reaction from Ludwig. "If you _want_ to go, that is," he added, and Ludwig clutched the passport to his chest eagerly.

"I want to go!"

And that was that.

* * *

Almost.

"Suddenly... I don't think I want to go anymore."

"Too late," Roderich drawled, inspecting his nails primly from his seat as Ludwig, bent over a cold medical slab, shifted nervously.

Off to the side, a tray of thick hypodermic needles lay in wait.

Just as Africa could bring out the explorer, a gigantic needle full of unknown liquid could bring out the little kid.

And Ludwig sure as hell looked like a little kid right now, eyes wide and nervous and looking even paler than usual, glancing over at the needles from time to time as he breathed through his mouth to keep himself steady. His fingers drummed the metal as he tried to keep still, and it was very obvious that he was absolutely terrified.

Not a surprise.

Who wanted to get stabbed?

"Is all of this really necessary?" he finally asked, in trepidation, and Roderich only nodded.

"I'm afraid so. I've already had them all. You can't get into the country without inoculation records. You wouldn't want to get there and then have to come all the way back, now, would you? Or worse, get the shots at the border, where the hospitals are, _ah_, less than respectable."

A valid, inescapable point.

Sighing in resignation, Ludwig looked at the opposite wall as the doctor, pulling on his gloves, leaned forward with the first injection.

"A little sting!"

Ludwig bit his bottom lip, perhaps to hide a retort more than prepare himself, and Roderich grimaced.

Well, better to get it over with.

"Ahh."

Ludwig winced when the needle pierced his skin, and, apparently trying to take his mind off of the pain as the others came, he ground out, "What are these for, exactly?"

Shifting in his chair, Roderich ticked off his fingers. "Let's see. Cholera. Typhoid fever. Smallpox. Rabies virus." He raised a brow, and added, coyly, "You'll need some boosters in a few months."

Ludwig groaned, and bowed his head.

Roderich could only smile, and try to keep his spirits high.

If he played his cards right, Gilbert would be a distant memory in Ludwig's mind before long.

Who was Gilbert, in the end?

Nobody.

A criminal. A bad influence. A liar. A con. A cheat.

Ludwig would get over him in time.

Gilbert was as good as gone.

Ludwig didn't need him anymore.

He was here now.

Why would Ludwig need anything else?

He was hopeful.

All of this was only beginning.

Gilbert was over.

And that was that.


	6. 1912

Chapter 5

**1912**

"Happy New Year!"

It was hot as hell, but spirits were not dampened as Roderich, seated next to Ludwig underneath the weathered, wooden roof of a porch enclosed by thin mosquito nets, raised his glass in celebration. Ludwig responded, albeit more tranquilly and with more restraint, and said, politely, "Cheers."

Well, that was good enough.

Leaning back, Roderich sighed in contentment, observing Ludwig as he watched the swaying brush before them, the high moon bathing the field in light.

A quaint scene.

Tall grass, wind, humid air and countless stars, and the forest beyond.

This moment of calm was everything he had needed.

Coming here and bringing Ludwig with him had been the best decision of his life.

It had been six months since they had arrived in German East Africa, on a good-will mission from Austria-Hungary in an effort to improve relations in the colony (and tighten the bond between the two empires), and it was going well. He was pleased with the progress, both with the native feelings and with Ludwig.

The locals were friendly, more than he had expected, and seemed eager to interact with him when he went out.

And that was great.

But he was even happier with Ludwig, and how far he had come.

Six months was a long time.

Ludwig was more at ease here than he had been in Vienna, out in the vast wilderness rather than a city of marble, and Roderich had even caught glimpses of him smiling without cause, which was rare enough, and he seemed to have accepted Gilbert's apparent rejection, and wrote no more to him, which was a hurdle Roderich had never thought they would cross.

It was selfish, sure, but he was _glad_ that Ludwig had stopped writing. He was glad that Ludwig was getting over Gilbert. If only a little.

He had come here with high hopes, but Ludwig was exceeding them.

He may as well have been walking in the clouds.

There were not many instances in his life in which he had been able to make those he cared for happy. Six years of marriage, and it had been a rare event indeed when he had done something that made Erzsébet smile. Feliciano had been easy to please, sure, but he had gotten most of his laughs out of Erzsébet. Ludwig didn't remember him.

Gilbert need not be spoken of.

Just like he had had to start over with Ludwig in that house in Berlin, so he was here in Africa.

Only this time, the feeling was a lot better.

Ludwig was surprising him more and more every day, waking up before the sun even hit the horizon and dragging him off onto impromptu adventures (although he usually just sat on the sidelines) on the weekends, and even _he_, not in any sense of the word an outdoorsman, had started loosening up. It was hard not to, when Ludwig smiled.

Sometimes, he found himself standing there back in a corner, and just staring at Ludwig as he tromped around in the dirt roads and in the fields. Ludwig looked up every so often, and caught him, and Roderich could only lift up his chin as if to say, 'What?' Ludwig just smiled, and went back to whatever it was he had been doing.

Every day was a little better.

Africa was freedom.

He wasn't Ludwig's friend yet. He wasn't anything to Ludwig now, as he had been before, but he was getting there, even if it was slowly. Ludwig was different now. Not a little kid.

Ludwig had grown.

That was another reason he watched Ludwig. Comparing and contemplating.

He remembered a few days after they had arrived here, Ludwig had gone outside the embassy for the first time, and Roderich took note of the look of absolute exhilaration on his face when he had finally been given permission to 'cut loose', as one could say. And Roderich remembered too the way he had leaned against the porch beams and watched with intent as Ludwig had stepped down into the grass. Not just to keep a protective eye on Ludwig; he had watched then, because it had hit him like a bullet that Ludwig was no longer a child.

Roderich had watched him, and it had almost been overwhelming. When Ludwig had been sitting there at a desk in Vienna, the image of a child doing school-work had been pretty easy to hold on to.

But not out here.

He remembered Ludwig's tiny stance years ago, barely coming up to his chest.

Now, Ludwig was his height. And always growing.

He remembered chubby cheeks and big eyes.

Now, Ludwig's cheeks were as sharp as everything else, and his pale eyes had taken their place well in a defined face.

He remembered tiny hands up against Erzsébet's, and little feet.

Now, Ludwig's hands were as big as his, and his feet a little bigger.

He remembered a skinny frame, pale and weak.

Now, Ludwig was just as pale, but not so skinny. Lean, maybe, but fairly strong for a teenager, and when he reached out to grab the branches of trees, Roderich could see muscles contracting in his arms.

In the sunlight, shadows cast down over angles and sharp features, and sometimes there was even a glimmer of barely-visible stubble on his cheeks whenever Ludwig neglected a morning shave.

Not a child.

It was a little hard to fathom that he had been hauling Ludwig around on his shoulders only a few years ago. Ludwig probably could have returned the favor now, as fast as he was growing. From playing with toy soldiers, to shaving together in the mornings.

Amazing, what a difference a few years could make.

It had been easy on that trip to Berlin to believe that he would be regaining a son. Now, he was starting to realize that Ludwig would never see him as a father without the memory of a childhood.

A friend, maybe. A mentor. A guardian, at most. But not a father.

Well.

A friend was enough. He could live with that.

With the state of his marriage, maybe being a friend was better than being a father. Knowing him, he'd probably fail at fatherhood as much as he had at being a husband.

So, he didn't try to play the role of wise elder, and tried harder just to be something close to a friend.

Being Ludwig's friend was proving to be hard work.

It probably would have been a hell of a lot easier to coax a damn hyena over and make it into a pet than it was to get Ludwig to let down his guard and talk to him.

One thing at a time, and at least Ludwig liked it here.

Even though he preferred the elegant buildings of Vienna to this carved wood and simple design of this tiny embassy, it wasn't _awful_, and it was peaceful and quiet and Ludwig loved it. That was enough.

The rooms were tiny and stuffy, all the windows covered with nets, and the diplomatic quarters and the office down the hall were exactly the same. He was more than grateful that his German counterparts had made sure this tiny building was hooked up with enough electricity to power a couple of fans and an ice-box.

That made things bearable, at the least.

Honestly, things here weren't quite how he had expected them to be, but he made it by.

And still, even after these six months, Erzsébet had not tried to contact him, not even once, and he suspected that she was waiting for him to make the first move, which was a mistake; he had no intentions, and no desire. He preferred to avoid such confrontations whenever possible, and sending a letter would be a bad idea.

What could he say to her?

'Greetings, dear. Ludwig and I are having a fantastic time in Africa. I hope you've had as much fun sitting in our huge house all by yourself.'

Hardly.

So, he stayed silent, and just let her be. If she didn't contact him, then they just wouldn't talk again until he returned to Vienna.

The less stress, the better. For both of them.

And besides, Ludwig was proving to be better company, calm and composed and (mostly) obedient, possessing none of the rebellious and sometimes malicious attitude that had been the source of his frustrations with both Gilbert and Erzsébet. Not to say Ludwig wasn't stubborn, because he was, but he was thoughtful, and reasonable.

It was nice.

Easy on his nerves.

So he hadn't even had second thoughts about breaking out an expensive bottle of champagne that he had been saving for the last night here and dragging Ludwig out onto the porch.

Why should he?

Time spent with Ludwig was time well-spent.

Even if Ludwig hardly talked.

"It will be a wonderful year, don't you think?"

"I'm sure," Ludwig supplied coolly, cradling his glass in his hands, and left it at that.

The trees were always rustling out here.

He sat back in his chair, rested the bottom of his glass against his abdomen, and watched Ludwig.

Maybe Ludwig wondered sometimes why he was being constantly stared at, but he would never have asked. That was a good thing.

He wished Ludwig would engage more.

Show a little enthusiasm when he wasn't tromping outside.

Couldn't he smile and look happy when he was sitting still, too? Was there such a difference for him in the exploration of the outdoors as there was in the exploration of friendship?

Ha. Like _he_ was one to talk.

Hypocrite.

Roderich would not pretend to fully understand what went on in Ludwig's mind, but even he knew that there was something holding Ludwig back from being completely happy, and that was why he was always so silent and almost resigned when he didn't have anything to focus on.

He knew why. He wasn't stupid.

Maybe it was only the insecurity of losing valuable memories, but Roderich suspected that Gilbert's hand was constantly on Ludwig's mood, like an inescapable tide rising and falling, especially in this season. Holidays were harder, and Christmas had been just alright. Ludwig stared often out of the window and into space, and even the best mood could be ruined by a simple memory of Gilbert popping up.

How awful, being beaten by a man who was now no better than a ghost.

It brought out the worst in him, and, oh God, Roderich had _longed_, at first, to free Ludwig of his guilt and obligation to Gilbert, and tell him that they weren't _really_ brothers, that Gilbert was nothing to him. That Gilbert had lied to him about so much more than he knew.

But Ludwig, for all of his resilience, was vulnerable and mentally delicate enough already, and why go out of his way to cause more distress?

Telling Ludwig the truth would cause more harm than good.

But he had come close, many times, to letting it slip, and not accidentally. He had meant to do it. But halfway through his awkward attempts, Ludwig would look up at him with those unreadable eyes, and he would always stop short, and go silent in uncertainty.

He choked.

Because the thought of hurting Ludwig was absolutely horrifying, even if it would have accomplished the goal in time.

He realized that the need to wound Gilbert was clouding his judgment.

And clouded judgment was Gilbert's specialty, not his, and he made a conscious effort to lift Ludwig's mood without causing harm. Destroying Gilbert's memory in Ludwig's mind was not quite worth the risk of destroying something else.

But it was hard to keep this all up, especially when Ludwig was always so serious. And so hard to involve.

"You know, I'm off the rest of this week. Would you like to go somewhere tomorrow? I'd like to spend more time with you."

"It's alright. I know you're busy."

"It's all paperwork. I can put it off for a while. Just for a day or two. We could go driving into the village, or maybe..."

He trailed off at the look Ludwig sent him. That quirked brow of disbelief, and the patient half-smile. A look of humoring.

He knew why.

What, exactly, could they really do? He had never really expressed interest in going out into the towns, and did so only when work called for it or when Ludwig all but dragged him. And even then, he was so socially awkward that he just stayed back and let Ludwig go about as he would. Every time Ludwig wanted to go somewhere, he obliged only out of courtesy, but never engaged.

Ludwig didn't expect him to live up to this declaration.

"I wouldn't mind..."

When Ludwig wanted to go into town, he drove. But he never got out of the car. When Ludwig wanted to go hiking, he took him to the edge of the forest. But he never climbed. And when Ludwig wanted to walk with him out on the quiet streets, he went. But he never lasted more than half an hour.

"Well. That is... I wouldn't mind going out for a while. You know, just to be around you."

A long silence.

The words felt as awkward as they had no doubt sounded.

"It's getting late," Ludwig suddenly said, and stood.

Roderich's heart dropped down into his feet.

Damn. Great going.

"Yeah," he muttered, lowly, "I suppose it is. You're probably tired."

"Aren't you?" Ludwig offered, quietly, as the breeze picked up. "I think we go to bed at the same time."

Maybe they did. He didn't see Ludwig enough to really know.

Working, working, working.

The story of his life.

Looking down at Roderich's silence, Ludwig added, politely, "Thank you for tonight."

He barely suppressed the scoff.

Thanks? For what? What kind of night had he offered? He had only shaken Ludwig awake at eleven and hauled him out onto the porch, where he had flimsily set up a table and the bottle of champagne. He hadn't even lit a candle, or brought out a record player. He had not taken the time to even ask Ludwig what he would have liked to do for the new year earlier in the day.

A last minute decision.

Maybe Ludwig would have liked to go over to the German establishment, where there was no doubt a party being held.

Pitiful.

"It's... It was nothing," he finally said, feebly, and could not push away his disappointment when Ludwig nodded his head and then retreated into the house, leaving him alone in the darkness. The clicking of the door was a sound he was used to.

That didn't make it feel any better, though.

He had half a mind to stand up and follow Ludwig, but what more could he say? The conversation had ended.

The night had ended.

It seemed that, no matter what he did, he just couldn't seem to prove to Ludwig that he cared for him as much as Gilbert had, despite how many years they had not seen each other. But then again, how could he ever convince anyone if he was not even really giving it a valiant effort?

Everything he did was half-hearted, and he usually expected a dull outcome.

He could only try harder.

With a heavy heart, he stayed out until the horizon turned pale and the bottle was empty, wondering exactly what it was that Gilbert had done to win Ludwig over.

It didn't seem fair.

* * *

Ludwig avoided him the next day.

Stalking the halls irritably, Roderich tried to track him down, but every time he felt like he was closing in, Ludwig (apparently a master of escape) was gone.

One second he was rounding a corner, and when Roderich stuck out his head? Gone.

Ludwig got up to get ready for school, and when Roderich waited to intercept him in the hall? Gone.

How the hell...?

It was getting annoying, and what had he done _this_ time? Perhaps he had made Ludwig uncomfortable. Maybe Ludwig needed some time alone. Maybe Ludwig just didn't want to talk to him.

Or maybe he should try a different approach.

So he got up one Saturday morning, and walked straight outside as soon as the sun was up in the sky. He didn't pass Ludwig, nor did he attempt to find him, heading straight out for the vehicle sitting in the drive.

This city was set up in a very simple manner.

Germans in the middle, Africans on the outskirts.

Embassies and hospitals dead center. Schools around.

Markets were outside.

And that was the problem.

Outside.

He didn't like to go _outside_ when not completely necessary, not in this heat and not when he felt he was putting himself in a very dangerous position, but he made an exception under the circumstances. Heading out of the seclusion of the embassy grounds and farther down into the small city, he stopped and asked the local Germans where the best markets were.

He must have looked strange, leaning out of his expensive car in his best clothes and speaking to these poorer than average citizens just to get directions to a less-than-secure African market.

Well. Maybe it was time he stepped out of his comfort zone a little.

They obliged him, at any rate, and pointed him down the right path.

They made it sound simple, but he could have gotten lost on a straight road, so he set out with caution.

Caution made no difference. Because getting lost on a straight road was exactly what happened.

After two hours of being completely and hopelessly lost under their directions, cursing and screeching to himself as he leaned over the steering wheel and read little signs, he finally found his way.

And this was why he always had a fuckin' driver.

When the dirt roads became rough and the tiny houses turned into tinier huts, he saw the gathering of barefoot locals in the distance, and sought out the best looking place he could see without actually getting into the middle of the crowd. He glimpsed one that looked promising, and put the car into park.

Stepping out was a little frightening.

He'd never gone out like this in such a place.

Not alone.

And he was immediately noticed.

It was kind of hard not to be eyeballed, a haughtily-dressed white man in the middle of an African market, stepping across puddles of stagnant water like they were dangerous, and he tried his best to act casual, even if it didn't work.

Brushing off the odd looks, he finally made it up to a stand that contained mostly gold, trades from the French and Spanish that had no doubt come across the borders illegally, and looked about.

He had been called many things in his life, and 'frugal' had come up, more than once.

Cheap. Thrifty. Penny-pincher.

He'd been called a 'cheap son of a bitch' by his own constituents at least twice.

It was true, maybe.

And when he saw something he wanted and finally pulled out his wallet, he froze up, just for a moment, before fighting back his inner protests at spending so much goddamn money. Oh, how he _hated_ the feel of someone taking bills from his hand, more than anything else.

He hated spending money.

But, in this case, it would be worth it.

So, he took his things, kept a firm grip on his wallet, and darted back out the way he had come in.

He was very glad to see the car.

The return trip went much better than the first, without any wrong turns, and he was home before long, clutching a box to his chest.

He was glad. Excited, even.

Thrilled.

He just wanted to see Ludwig smile at him.

At _him_, not at something going on outside.

Now, the only thing was to hunt down Ludwig long enough to present this gift to him.

But it wasn't as hard as he thought, as he had apparently caught Ludwig off guard, sitting at the kitchen table and staring off into the distance above a cup of coffee. He held his chin in his hand, pale hair gleaming white and eyes golden in the sunlight from the window, lean and long and pale, and Roderich was taken aback, as he so often was nowadays, by how much Ludwig had grown.

Ludwig was handsome.

He slunk up silently, and when he was in arms reach, he sprung.

"There you are," he said, promptly engaging Ludwig before he could escape again.

No getting away this time.

"How are you?" Ludwig asked, automatically, straightening up in alarm and gawking up at Roderich, obviously having had no expectations of being caught out in the open. Roderich came across in front of him, and sat the box on the table, pushing it over.

There was a short silence, as Ludwig eyed it warily, and he shifted his weight as though suddenly uncomfortable.

"What's this?"

"Late Christmas present, I suppose."

A gift might not have been a direct ticket to the heart, but maybe the thought would be, and maybe just by even _trying_ Ludwig would start to realize that the sun did not rise and fall only on Gilbert.

That he cared, too.

But Ludwig seemed reluctant to take the box, staring at it instead with a low brow, and Roderich felt the enthusiasm of before begin to founder a bit.

Ah, hell. Maybe Ludwig wouldn't even like it.

The thought was mortifying.

"Open it," he finally said, trying to hide his anxiety, and after a moment Ludwig obeyed, if not hesitantly.

Reaching inside the box, he pulled out a gold device, and examined it curiously.

Roderich waited, and held his breath.

Ludwig flipped it this way and that, and then gave a short 'hm' of interest.

"Say, I've seen this somewhere before."

"Probably in your schoolbooks. It's an astrolabe," Roderich supplied, sitting down in front of him. "It was used to read the stars back in the day. Sort of like a compass, I guess. Guidance. I thought maybe you would like it. You seem like you like these kind of things."

Ludwig snorted, passing the gift from hand to hand.

Roderich had wanted to say, 'if you ever think of Gilbert, just look at this and remember that I would do _anything_ for you, no matter what,' but such words were difficult for him to utter, and he lowered his eyes to the table as Ludwig tinkered with the instrument.

He could only hope that it would speak for itself.

"Compass, huh? Hm. Maybe _you_ should carry one around," Ludwig quipped, making light of his terrible sense of direction, and Roderich thought for a moment that he had achieved exactly what he had wanted, and he leaned across the table as he waited for Ludwig to look up at him with a smile.

Ludwig looked up.

But he wasn't smiling, and he was nothing but completely serious. "It looks expensive," Ludwig murmured then, as they stared at each other, and with that he set it gently back down into the box.

Roderich did not respond, feeling the awful rise of uncertainty when Ludwig fell still, and lowered his eyes to the table.

There was a very awkward pause.

Had he jumped the gun again?

Wouldn't surprise him.

"Please don't buy me things," Ludwig finally said, putting the lid on the box and pushing it back towards Roderich slowly. Roderich realized that his face must have fallen terribly at that moment, for Ludwig added, carefully, "Buying expensive things was Gilbert's way of trying to keep me happy. I never wanted any of those things. I just wanted him to tell me the truth. So, please don't buy me things. Just keep talking to me." Ludwig leaned back in his chair, and for a moment he almost smiled. "Gilbert never did _that_."

Almost.

His heart raced in a mixture of relief and yet such disappointment, and he barely managed to respond, "I thought you didn't like talking to me."

Ludwig shifted awkwardly, and then shook his head. "I do. Sometimes I just don't know what to say. But I'm trying."

Right.

Well, he was trying, too.

In that, he and Ludwig could understand each other.

Roderich sat in silence for a moment, and then stood up, and he dared himself to have a little hope as he said, "Then please keep it. For my sake. And I promise I'll never buy you anything ever again. Deal?"

Ludwig crossed his arms above his chest, looking up at him with a low brow of contemplation.

And then, finally, mercifully, Ludwig smiled.

"Deal," Ludwig said, and the atmosphere lightened.

He could have fallen over for how _happy_ he was.

Strange, how such small things meant so much.

A simple exchange. Only a few minutes. And yet, after that, things were easy.

Who could ever have known that this was all he had to do?

Every day after that seemed to get a little better. Ludwig opened up to him a little, and then a little more, and then suddenly Ludwig and he were sitting on the couch in the evenings and having actual conversations. Ludwig sat with him at the table and they ate meals together. He looked over Ludwig's schoolwork sometimes, and sometimes Ludwig peeked at his paperwork when he allowed him to. And even though Roderich could still catch glimpses of annoyance on Ludwig's face at times at little things he did (when he tried to patch up clothes or fix broken cups or when he put too much sugar in the coffee) all of the tension was gone.

Ludwig smiled at him now.

At him.

It was all he could have asked for, and as the months passed, Ludwig even began to start asking him questions about what it was like to be an ambassador, and he was no longer just the guardian.

He was a friend now. He was a mentor.

He was beating Gilbert. He was sure of it.

This was the best decision he had ever made.

Ludwig loved Africa.

He loved the air and the sky and the fields and the forests, and he loved any moment spent outdoors and in the streets.

And Roderich loved Africa, too.

But not because of any sights or sounds, or any childish sentimentality, or any buried longing for adventure.

He loved Africa because Ludwig loved it.

Ludwig was already an interesting specimen as it was, but being in this place was truly a chance to study him and learn more about him. Especially since Ludwig seemed so much more comfortable here in this poor place than he did back in the great marble world of Vienna, as strange as it may have been.

Roderich learned things about Ludwig here that he would have never learned any other way.

It wasn't a very long walk until the tiny little villages on the outside, and it was a trip that Ludwig was very willing and sometimes very eager to make, no matter what the weather was outside. Roderich wouldn't profess to understand _why_, exactly. It just was what it was. Ludwig loved to go out into the midst of the little huts.

Roderich drove him, sometimes, and just sat in the car under a tree and watched him.

Curious scenes.

The villagers had already come to recognize Ludwig's face, and whenever some of them saw him coming they would go out of their way to fall in his path, if only to say hello.

The German Empire had gone to much greater lengths than the French in keeping their colonies in good favor, and had set up hospitals and even schools so that the local children had a place to go. Hostility in this little place was rare.

Roderich was glad for that. Otherwise, such trips outside would not only have been inadvisable, they would have been dangerous.

But Ludwig was safe, so Roderich let him go.

He just walked, here and there, hands in his pockets as he observed the great plains and the dirt beneath his feet, and sometimes Roderich would see a villager come up to him and show him things they had acquired. Sometimes feathers of great birds, sometimes the fangs of beasts, sometimes a snake-skin. Ludwig always responded politely and maybe even enthusiastically, and even if there was not always a common language, pointing and smiles were easy things to communicate with.

Roderich never walked with him on that side, and waited patiently from afar.

Other days he would come home, and Ludwig would be gone. He remembered clearly one sweltering, unbearably humid day in March, trudging back into the wooden house from a long day at the German consulate, he had wanted nothing more than just to open up the damn icebox, take out a huge chunk and collapse down onto the couch to fondle it for an hour or two.

He'd gone over and opened it up, and, bust.

Nothing. Empty.

He'd gone off into the hall, bitching and moaning, and the first staff person he'd run into had faced his wrath.

'Why is the goddamn icebox empty?'

She had just looked at him then like he was insane (well, maybe he was), and after a moment she had said, 'Ludwig took it out.'

Out. Out meant 'out in the village'.

And just like that, Roderich had bowed his head and heaved a great sigh, and he could just _see_ Ludwig taking out that huge block of ice and breaking it into pieces and then lugging it in a bag out into that tiny collection of huts to pass it around to the parched locals like candy to children.

Well. What could he do?

He had gone back, tossed himself down on the couch, buried his face in the pillow, and groaned away his misery. Ludwig had come back hours later, sunburnt and sweating, and when Roderich sent him a look of accusation, Ludwig had just lifted up his chin as if he didn't know what Roderich was eluding to.

He couldn't exactly fathom sacrificing his own personal comfort for that of others, but hell. If it made Ludwig happy, then that was fine.

Anyway, he'd forced Ludwig to make him some iced coffee, and they were even again.

The villagers held some kind of festival or some such later on, and one of the staff members had let it slip to Ludwig before Roderich had to the chance to tell them not to. Needless to say, Ludwig had been adamant, and Roderich had found himself driving out yet again to the outskirts of the city.

He had been irritated, at first, as the humid air made his hair cling to his scalp and the clouds overhead came and went as the monsoon winds blew, and he had ambled on behind Ludwig, stopping every so often to take off his glasses and wipe off the steam.

Not his scene.

Dancing and shouting and chanting all over, bright colors under the dull sky, and Roderich just stared up at the clouds and waited for the inevitable rain.

Ludwig, unfazed by the weather as he always was, walked all over the place, making sure that he had seen every last thing going on around him.

Roderich had been agitated.

Later on, he was glad that he had come.

Watching Ludwig was something he could never really put into words, and his attention had quickly been torn away from the heavens when two men from the village came up to Ludwig on either side, and kept pointing down at his shoes. It took a minute to understand, but eventually Ludwig gave a quick, 'Oh!', and quickly reached down to remove his shoes.

Must have been some kind of sacred...thing. Right.

Roderich had waited, but no one had approached him, and maybe that was for the best; he wouldn't have taken his boots off for anything in the entire world, no matter how easily Ludwig complied.

Sometimes, Ludwig's patience was a little amazing.

Ha. Maybe not so amazing. Patience had surely been a necessary skill to survive all those years of Gilbert.

Shoes cast off, Ludwig had followed the men into the middle of the dirt road, and even back from where he had stood Roderich could see the suppressed winces as the sharp rocks cut his feet. But Ludwig never complained, and never once gave thought to the harsh earth beneath him.

Roderich didn't always understand Ludwig.

But that didn't take away any of the affection or the desire to be around him or the absolute exhilaration that came in just watching.

To watch Ludwig was to glimpse a part of him that could never have been spoken to.

And so he had watched, then, when an old woman had come up to Ludwig and placed a hand on his arm, and Ludwig had immediately obeyed her when she had motioned for him to sit.

Things that could never be explained in words.

Neat, fastidious Ludwig, who never wore the same thing twice without washing it first, sitting down in the mud and rocks because an old woman had told him to do so, bare feet sticking out on either side and covered in dirt.

The other ambassadors had told him, the day he had arrived, that Africa could do strange things to a man.

Maybe Ludwig was no exception.

Roderich stood back underneath the scraggly branches of a lone trees, arms crossed and reaching out every so often to swat away a mosquito, and yet no matter what oddities passed by him or how many people sent him strange looks, he had eyes only for Ludwig.

And he was fairly certain that, no matter how many years passed or how many things came to be, he would never forget the way he had felt when that old woman had reached out and taken Ludwig's hands up within her own, wrinkled black on smooth white, nor would he forget the way that Ludwig had looked at her.

It was so easy to see Ludwig the first time, tall and pale and with such a serious face and such icy eyes, and to see him as unapproachable and maybe even a little intimidating. Add to those looks a little pessimism and a lot of silence, and maybe Ludwig wasn't exactly someone you would consider seeking out.

Roderich would admit, perhaps, that if he hadn't known Ludwig first as a little child, then maybe he too might have kept a distance.

But there was nothing frightening about Ludwig, and not a thing bad within him, and seeing him there with that old woman on that day, looking at her like she could have been his grandmother as she spoke away to him in her own language, was something that Roderich would take with him for the rest of his life.

The real Ludwig, that hid behind the constant seriousness and the melancholy.

The proof that Ludwig could come out without Gilbert around.

Roderich had stood there for hours, never making a move to rush Ludwig back into the car, and the experience had ended only when the great clouds had opened up above them and the monsoon started to crash down.

Ludwig had gathered up his shoes and trotted back over to Roderich, who had already retreated inside the vehicle, and when he had jumped in the car, Roderich had stared at him for so long that Ludwig had started getting that smile of nervousness on his face.

He couldn't help it.

Out here in the middle of nowhere, in a tiny car as a great flood came down around them, and Ludwig's shirt had clung to his skin from the rain and his hair had fallen down into his eyes, and for a while there, he had looked like a little kid again.

He missed the way Ludwig had loved him before.

So he just stared now, and imagined 'what if's.

He couldn't have ever put into words the way Ludwig made him feel.

Finally, when Ludwig started fidgeting, Roderich started the engine and they drove back into the city.

Ludwig had looked at him later that night, as they sat down over coffee and listened to the endless rain, and had said, 'Thank you for coming with me.'

'Sure,' he'd said, even though he didn't really see why Ludwig had thanked him. All he had done was drive. He hadn't made a move to get in the middle of anything.

It wasn't that he didn't _want_ to interact.

He just didn't know how.

Ludwig made it look easy, but he couldn't ever seem to take that first step forward.

But that was alright; he was more than content just to watch.

Things were going so well.

Every day with Ludwig seemed to bring on something new.

The days passed into weeks.

For Ludwig's sixteenth birthday (not the birth date he himself had wanted to give Ludwig, but it was too late now, wasn't it?) Roderich took him to the grand Lake Victoria, a place that many of the other diplomats had gushed about and told him he had to see before he left. Supposedly surrounded by beautiful waterfalls, Roderich had been slightly disappointed when he realized that in order to see many of the waterfalls, you had to actually walk there.

Which meant that he would not be seeing any.

_Walk_ there? In this heat?

Hardly.

He let Ludwig take charge of that, as he waited patiently under a shade tree, book in hand.

Water lapped down below, as the wind whipped up waves on the lake.

He had no desire to ruin his clothes and risk personal injury, but Ludwig was having what appeared to be a great time, and when he finally stumbled out of the brush hours later, cheeks red and covered in twigs and briars, Roderich had merely raised a brow and started the car.

Not a moment too soon.

The sun and bugs got to him far too easily.

"That was great," Ludwig said, later, as they drove down the bumpy path, and despite scratching irritably at the bug bites on his arms and legs, he was smiling.

Roderich just snorted.

"I'm glad you enjoyed yourself."

Ludwig leaned his head out of the window, loose hair plastered to his forehead, and the look of contentment on his face made Roderich's heart soar.

Seeing Ludwig happy was just...

"Can we come here again?"

Amazing.

"We'll see."

"I'd like to."

He smiled, thoughtfully, and said, again, "We'll see."

Ludwig looked hopeful.

Roderich had absolutely every intention of coming here again, if Ludwig wanted to.

He wanted to come back.

If only to see that look of absolute breathlessness on Ludwig's face.

'We'll see.'

But they would not go back, not on this voyage, and to Roderich's horror, the next two months would turn out to be a living nightmare, and he gained a first-hand glimpse of why Africa had been called, not so long ago, the 'white man's grave'.

Danger wasn't always in the things you could see.

It started innocently enough.

A week after their trip to the lake, Roderich came home from a meeting, and was surprised when Ludwig was not sitting outside waiting for him or sitting on the couch with a stack of homework. Setting his briefcase down at the door, Roderich made his way down the hall, looking here and there, and he finally found Ludwig sitting in the kitchen table over an untouched cup of coffee, resting his head in his hands. He looked tired.

Exhausted, even.

Odd.

"Long day?" Roderich asked, and Ludwig looked up at him wearily, and the circles under his eyes were obvious.

"I didn't go to school today."

That was strange.

"What's wrong? You don't feel well?"

Ludwig's cheeks were flushed.

He passed behind Ludwig, opening the cabinet to pull out the teapot. He waited for a moment, and finally Ludwig responded, voice barely a whisper, "I don't know. I felt strange this morning. I'm sore."

"Well, you did do a lot of hiking, " he offered, and thought no more of it.

The next two days, things were back to normal, and Ludwig seemed fine. He dismissed the whole incident, until the following morning, when Ludwig was up before he was, sitting on the sofa, covered with a blanket and shivering.

It was already eighty degrees outside.

Roderich had given him an aspirin, and sent him back to bed. When he got home, strangely, Ludwig seemed fine.

He was fine for five more days.

And then something went wrong, and when Roderich finished work one unassuming day, Ludwig was sitting out on the porch, slumping wearily in the wicker chair. His eyes were closed, and Roderich paused in front of him, grabbing his shoulder gently. Ludwig started, and looked up at him blearily.

Asleep?

This was not like Ludwig, to be so lethargic.

"Are you alright?"

Ludwig nodded, wincing as he did so, as if moving his neck hurt him. Alarming. Roderich quickly passed inside, shedding his briefcase and changing his clothes, trying to move as fast as possible to return to Ludwig and keep an eye on him. He must have looked worried; the staff stopped and stared at him as he stalked back down the hall.

Blazing sun.

When Roderich stepped back outside, Ludwig was not on the porch, and when he scanned the horizon, he could see that Ludwig had moved down the open field, heading towards the gazebo that was down the path. His feet seemed unsteady as he walked, and Roderich followed, the concern ever growing. Ludwig was not graceful by any means, certainly not, but he was never _this_ clumsy. He wobbled back and forth, and his hands reached out, as if grasping air to keep his balance.

Roderich could see that he was walking stiffly, as if in pain.

When Roderich finally caught up to him, Ludwig had already thrown himself down into a chair and had closed his eyes again.

The scene set off a warning in his mind. He was reminded, suddenly, of a wounded animal that sought out a familiar, comforting place in which to lie down and die.

"Ludwig?"

There was no response. Roderich leaned down, heart racing in the first stirrings of panic, and he put a heavy hand on Ludwig's shoulders. "Hey, Ludwig. Are you alright? Can you hear me?"

Nothing.

He snapped his fingers.

Nothing.

Frightened, he reached out, and slapped Ludwig's cheek, gently.

Before him, Ludwig lurched forward a little, and nodded, once, bowing his head wearily.

"I'm fine," he muttered, heavily. "Tired, I guess. My head hurts. I just...feel..."

Roderich furrowed his brow as he tried to make out the rest of Ludwig's odd rambling, but he had little time to sort it all out. Ludwig fell silent suddenly, swaying in his chair, and then with a deep sigh he pitched forward.

Roderich reacted faster than he had ever thought was possible of himself, leaping forward and catching Ludwig a second before he hit the ground. Ludwig's weight and the bad angle didn't keep Ludwig from hitting the ground, but the landing was much gentler than it would have been.

Okay. Now he panicked.

Oh God, oh God, what did he do? What should he do? He could've cried right there, out of the frustration, and he grabbed Ludwig into his arms and shook him as hard as he dared.

"Ludwig! Hey! Ludwig?"

Ludwig was unconscious, and gave no answer. It was then, with the younger's form gripped within his arms, that Roderich realized how _hot_ Ludwig was. So hot. It was as if someone was putting a scalding kettle up against his shirt.

A fever like that...

For an awful moment, his mind shut down, and he could only stare at Ludwig in horror. Ludwig, who he was supposed to protect. Ludwig, who had put trust in him to keep him safe.

Something was wrong.

He looked around, helplessly, but they were alone down the way, and he did not want to leave Ludwig even for a second. The house was not far, and he cried, as loud as he could, "HEY! Someone come help!"

With his screeching and the way he had looked earlier, he was relieved that the staff came running before long. They had probably been peering out of the windows to see what he had been going outside for.

They ran through the brush, the maid lifting up her skirt, and together they hauled Ludwig gently inside, and set him down on the couch.

Roderich bolted to the phone, and called the doctor.

Ludwig didn't move.

They jostled him and shook him, fanned him with whatever they could grab, took off his boots and socks, and the maid put ice under his neck and armpits, but not once did he stir. He didn't move. Roderich found himself stuck there by the phone, watching the others bustle, and he realized that he was too scared to move. They kept checking Ludwig's pulse, kept checking his breathing, and Roderich feared that if he went any closer he would see that Ludwig wasn't breathing at all, and oh, _God_!

He couldn't bear that.

Waiting for the doctor to come was the most horrifying moment of his life, and when he finally arrived, shoving everyone aside and hovering over Ludwig with a stethoscope and a frown, there was no good news. The diagnosis was easy. Everything after was not.

It was malaria.

The killer of millions.

Blaming himself and worried about what would come to pass, Roderich drove Ludwig to the nearest hospital, German run, and brought him in as fast as he could without dropping him. The nurses took Ludwig from his shaking arms, dropped him onto a stretcher, and carted him away. Roderich fumbled and blubbered at their questions, too flustered to respond, and so worried.

He was so worried.

It had just been a mosquito bite. That was all. Just a bite.

How had this happened?

The hospital smelled awful; chemicals and medicine and sickness, bleach in the halls and something else that Roderich couldn't place, something _awful_, and he hated every miserable second of it, but he stayed there all the same. He stayed by Ludwig's side, cast all workload to the winds, forwent every meeting and every bit of responsibility, and answered for no one.

Not anyone.

Nothing now was more important than Ludwig.

No one.

The next two weeks were merciless hell, as Ludwig drifted in and out of consciousness, delirious and feverish, and it hurt Roderich more than anything else when Ludwig twisted and moaned and spoke quite frequently to a Gilbert who just wasn't there.

Gilbert. Always.

Roderich placed his palm on Ludwig's forehead from time to time, but even now, with the medicine being pumped into his veins, he was still so hot. It was as if nothing had changed, as if the medicine were killing Ludwig as much as the disease was.

Actually, that was fairly accurate. Quinine was a powerful drug, and they were pumping into Ludwig's veins like water; a fine line that they danced, because one wrong dose and Ludwig was as dead as he would be without it.

The thought of Ludwig not pulling through this was too much. He sat there in his chair, staring at the writhing Ludwig on the bed, and the urge to cry was so great that sometimes he had to bury his face in his hands just to keep himself in check.

When Ludwig had been little, he had looked so lost, and helpless. It was disheartening, to see him in that same state again, only this time he was unable to help as he once had.

Ludwig was strong, but not immortal. People died all the time.

Ludwig was only human.

And afterwards, _if_ he recovered, how long before he was back to normal? Would he ever be? What if something went wrong? What if the Ludwig that came out of this hospital was different?

They should _never_ have come here.

He couldn't sleep at night, knowing that Ludwig was suffering.

He was as bad as Gilbert was.

Neither one of them could seem to keep Ludwig safe.

* * *

It had been five months.

Sprawled on his stomach on his bed, letters splayed out before him, Gilbert's mind was churning uneasily. As it usually was.

It had been five months since Ludwig had last written him, and it was gnawing at him. He had been receiving a letter every week or so, and now, suddenly, absolutely nothing. It was .

Had Ludwig, then, finally forgotten him? He had not forgotten Ludwig.

Of course he had received every letter. Of course he had read them.

And of course he had written long, honest, heart-felt responses to each and every one of them, pushing aside every strand of pride in his body. He wrote things on paper that could never hope to come out of his mouth, and yet Ludwig had never received one of them.

Because he had not mailed them.

At first, it had been a simple act of spite, as he had tried, in some way, to hurt Ludwig as Ludwig had hurt him. But then, when he started writing his own, he realized that he was, perhaps, not as confident as he always claimed to be.

The thought of Ludwig reading such words from _him_ was mortifying, to say the least. It was safer to keep them here, locked away in his room, meant only for himself.

But the letters had stopped.

The days seemed to grow longer, and he found himself in a constant state of confusion, perpetually unfocused and unmotivated to do even the most menial of tasks. He had enough money to pay his bills, of course, but that money would not last forever, and maybe it wouldn't even last until Ludwig came back.

And Ludwig coming back seemed to be the only possible way to pull himself from this rut he was in.

Ludwig _had_ to come back.

Gathering the letters dutifully, he replaced them in his dresser, and tried to carry on with life as normally as possible. No matter how his heart ached.

His life may have stopped, but the world kept on spinning.

He didn't even want to crawl out of bed, but for some reason he did anyway.

He had things to attend to today, and he had papers to deliver to a client in downtown Berlin. It wasn't the most profitable of things he could acquire, illegal papers, for even though he was paid well, almost half of what he got went to the forger. But it was good enough for now, and he didn't feel like putting so much effort into harder tasks.

What was even the point?

If Ludwig did not love him anymore...

Pulling on his coat, he set out, ambling through the streets mindlessly. He bowed his head and quickened his pace when he passed the abandoned warehouse where once there had been the barking of dogs.

It took him an hour or so to reach his destination, and the man stood on the corner, waiting expectantly. When he saw Gilbert coming, he crossed his arms.

"I thought you weren't coming."

"Yeah, yeah... Bad ankles," he said lamely, and pulled the envelope from his coat.

Packages were exchanged, papers for money, and in the back of Gilbert's mind, he could hear Ludwig reprimanding him, like a cross mother.

He was a disappointment.

Oh... He _missed_ Ludwig.

He could barely breathe these days.

"Nice doin' business with you," he said, and brushed past.

Looking over his shoulder, the man called, "Aren't you going to count it?"

His words barely registered in Gilbert's ears, and he carried on without answering, tucking the envelope in his coat and ambling off, feeling guilty and shamed.

It was a mistake he would regret soon after, as he crossed the downtown of Berlin, seeking out a gift for himself to raise his spirits.

An old habit of his, buying something expensive to make his crying at night a little more bearable.

Trudging through the narrow streets, hands tucked in his pockets, he looked through the glass windows, waiting for something to catch his eye. It had never taken very long, and so it was now, as a glint of light drew his attention, and shiny things were always attractive. He stopped in his tracks, looking up at the sign above. It was a small, expensive antique store that he had eyed before, but he had always managed to push away the urge to go inside.

But this time he deserved a treat, a small present, _anything _to take his mind off of Ludwig (because Ludwig probably wasn't thinking about _him_), and without another thought he pushed open the door and slipped inside.

"Good morning," came the clerk's automatic greeting.

He paused to look at her, as if through a fog, and finally gave a mumbled, "Morning..."

His head hurt.

Satisfied, she turned away, and he roamed the aisles, not even considering that he could merely have sneaked something into his pocket and got out, which was what he would have done had he been in a right state. Rather, he grabbed the first thing that cried out to him, a delicately engraved astrolabe (or whatever the hell they were called; it was pretty and shiny, that was all that mattered), and took it up to the counter.

"That's very pretty," the clerk offered, as he dug in his pockets for the envelope, trying to make polite conversation. "It would look nice above a fireplace."

"You're right," he said, and pulled a handful of the new Marks from his pockets, placing them on the table without looking at them.

"Thank you." She took the bills in her hands, and he did not see her pause, nor did he notice the continued shuffling of the paper between her fingers, so lost was he in his own melancholy. "I'll be right back," she suddenly said, but he did not hear, holding his chin in his hand as he stared into space.

Hell.

Maybe he should have written Ludwig back, after all, to reassure him that he wasn't _really _mad. Not at him.

Well! ...well. When Ludwig came back, he could tell him to his face. For he had no doubt, no matter how long Ludwig had not written to him, that soon he would come back.

He _had_ to come back.

Roderich could not keep them apart forever. He would _die_ if Ludwig did not come back.

"That's him."

The clang of the glass door startled him from his stupor, and he started upright, feeling his heart begin to race when he saw the clerk standing next to a police officer.

Oh, shit. Where had that come from? Was he so suspicious that she had already assumed he was cartin' stuff off in his pockets? For once in his life, he was actually purchasing something honestly.

Gilbert took a step back, warily, and the cop stepped with him.

"Sir, can I talk to you for a moment?"

What was this?

"I... I've got something important to attend to," he said, shakily, head cloudy, and tried to sidestep them, but the officer grabbed his arm and yanked him back, shoving him less than gently against the wall.

"You're under arrest," he said, and, feeling the rush of adrenaline in his veins, he began to struggle.

"For what? I didn't do anything! Let me go! Check my pockets, man, I didn't lift anything!"

"Passing counterfeit bills," the officer said, quite calmly, and Gilbert fell still, astounded.

There had to be a mistake. He was an expert in money, having handled more of it in several years than this cop would ever see in his whole life. No one passed fake bills on _him_; who would dare? And he always looked first...

He paled, and hung his head in defeat.

He hadn't even opened the envelope. He hadn't even looked.

As the officer dragged him out, he struggled no more, calculating ways he could try to get out of this.

Of course, his honest dealing would be his downfall.

He should've just stolen it.

* * *

It was cold.

But then, he supposed, that was just another form of psychological warfare, and police stations were not meant to be comforting.

The cop in front of him was even less welcoming than the scenery.

"You still haven't told me your name."

"...Karl."

"Okay, Karl, tell me again what happened."

"I already told you! I didn't know it was fake, alright? I got change from a man. It's not my fault! Listen," he pleaded, desperately, "I have to go home! I didn't mean to do anything wrong! It was an accident, I swear!" As an afterthought, he added, "Please, my little brother is sick, and I really need to get home to him."

The officer looked up at him, face softening a bit, and asked, "Little brother, huh? What's his name?"

He foundered for a split second, and then said, softly, "Roderich. He's...just a kid."

Manipulation. The only thing he could do right.

"Well," the cop said, "I don't like separating families. I'll try to get you through as fast as I can."

"Thank you."

"Stand up, please."

He did, but instead of leading him to the door, the cop ordered him to turn around and face the wall. Gilbert did so, reluctantly, and his heart raced when he felt hands patting him up and down.

"Do you have any weapons?"

"No, sir," he lied.

"Anything illegal?"

"No, sir."

The cop suddenly pulled his wallet out of his pocket, and he froze. If he opened it, and saw all those cards...

"Do you have any brothers?" he asked, conversationally, in an attempt to distract him, but it was unsuccessful.

"Yeah, I do, I have..." The officer trailed off suddenly, and the shuffle of the wallet opening told Gilbert he was done for. "Well, well, well! It seems like you have many names _Karl_."

"Let's not jump to conclusions," he said, but there was no smooth talking his way out of false IDs, and in half an hour he had been fingerprinted, searched again, and thrown in a cell to spend the night, until they could find out exactly who he was.

But they had not found the pocketknife he kept in his sock.

The day faded into afternoon, he cried a little, and soon the horizon was dark.

He wanted to go home.

The only sound after the lights went out was a strange, muffled clicking, but the guard, slouched at his desk, failed to hear it. Perhaps the cell opposite him could hear, but if they did they did not speak, and Gilbert continued jabbing at the crumbling concrete that encased the ends of the metal bars that blocked him from freedom. In his left hand he held his pillow, pushing it up as close as he could to his knife in an attempt to block all noise he was making.

"Goddammit," he hissed miserably under his breath, as he struck again and again, every metallic clink chipping a little concrete off onto the floor. "Motherfucker, why..." Clink. "...won't you..." Clink. "...come _loose_?"

The bar quivered, a centimeter, and he paused, wincing when he massaged his burning, red palm. He had cut himself several times already, and in his mind he pretended that Ludwig would be waiting at home to bandage his hand, like a good brother would.

He had to have some kind of motivation. Otherwise, he'd sit here and rot.

"Goddammit," he cursed again, and got back to work.

If he couldn't get out, then he was done for.

Life was done for.

Much later, perhaps an hour or so before the break of dawn, the last bar gave in and fell with a dull thud outside, and, heart swimming with relief, he reached up and pulled himself up, squeezing through the tiny window as best he could. But he was not as lean as Ludwig, or as elegant as Roderich, and he nearly cinched himself in at the waist.

Wriggling desperately, he finally, mercifully, slipped through, and as soon as his feet had something solid beneath them, he ran as fast he could into the steadily rising mist, disappearing into freedom.

It had been too close.

Far too close.

As his chest heaved with the effort of sprinting, he briefly contemplated whether or not he would have to abandon the home he had created with Ludwig.

But no. Berlin was such a massive city, and he had been caught so far from home, and they didn't even _know_ his name, no matter how many fingerprints they had, and how could he throw away so many years of memories?

He was safe where he was.

Besides, what if Ludwig came home and he wasn't there?

Ludwig had to come home.


	7. 1913

**A/N** : If you're curious, the colony that was formerly German East Africa is today the country of Tanzania (among others). Fun fact of the day.

* * *

Chapter 6

**1913**

Snow had never been so beautiful.

Roderich was in every sense of the word dignified, but had he been alone, he had no doubt that he would have thrown himself into the white drifts and rolled around like a dog. Of course, as Ludwig trudged up the stairs beside him, that was not an option.

Face, above all else.

Still, it was all he could ask for to be back in Austria.

"Remind me," he began, as he set a suitcase aside to pull out his key, "to never cross the sea again."

He could hear Ludwig snort, and his weary voice cut over the cold wind.

"I'll do that."

Pushing the door open, they hauled their belongings inside, dropping them carelessly onto the floor. And now even Ludwig seemed relieved to be back, looking around the room with a fond expression.

No doubt this scenery was much more appreciated than the hospital bed that Ludwig had spent a month occupying.

And Austria was nice, sure, but in all honesty they could have been in any shitty little alley in the entire world, and Roderich still would have thrown himself down with a sigh of relief, because Ludwig was up on his feet and still very much alive.

The hardest month of his life.

Sleepless nights, horrible nightmares, shifting back and forth in that little chair he had called a bed, watching Ludwig shiver and sweat all night long, feeling so guilty and so helpless. Missing Ludwig, who was right in front of him and yet so far away.

The doctors checked on Roderich as much as they had Ludwig, monitoring his temperature and making sure he was getting enough to eat. He had lived in that fuckin' hospital for a month, and he had walked out of it looking as hellish as Ludwig did.

But that month of loyalty had been worth it, and had earned him loyalty as well.

The first night that Ludwig's fever had broken, he had finally opened his eyes, able to take in his surroundings with lucidity, and when he had looked over and met Roderich's eyes, the smile had been worth the entire world. Wan and weak and so tired, and yet that smile had made Ludwig look like the most beautiful thing in the universe. They had stared at each other, each comprehending, and Ludwig had whispered, with a voice so far-gone it was barely audible, 'Hey, Roderich. Long time, no see.'

Ludwig hadn't been quite right in the head then, but Roderich had rushed forward and gripped his hand all the same, so happy that he had nearly burst into tears right there. Instead, he had laughed, and pressed his forehead into Ludwig's clammy one, and had replied, 'It's about time you came back! I sure did miss you. Don't do that again, alright?'

Ludwig had just smiled, blearily, and fell back asleep.

The first truly competent words Ludwig had uttered were, 'Did you sit here the whole time?'

The nurse checking over Ludwig answered before Roderich did, and had said, 'Oh, he was here the whole time. alright! I've been treating two patients. You're lucky to have such a good friend.'

The look Ludwig had sent him...

No words Roderich knew could ever describe it. But he was pretty sure that it was something close to love.

Ludwig might have lost the love he had had for Roderich when he was little, but Roderich had regained a new kind of love that day.

He was fairly certain, then, that Ludwig would've followed him to the end of the earth.

The feeling was mutual.

In this case, the end of the earth was right here in Vienna, and home was calling their names.

The commotion they had made entering attracted a visitor, and Erzsébet, rubbing her eyes blearily, tread silently down the stairs.

"Who's there?" she called, warily, and Roderich did not miss the strange look that Ludwig sent him, clearly inquiring, 'She didn't know?'

He could only shrug a shoulder, and respond, "It's me. We're back."

'It's me.' That was all he could say. Couldn't even muster a 'Honey, I'm home.'

She rounded the corner, and stopped short when she saw them. Perhaps instinctively, she immediately broke into a smile and stepped towards him, only to freeze in her tracks when she remembered the less than amicable terms on which they had last parted.

Excitement could only fix so much, and it couldn't last forever. Her's lasted about thirty seconds, and then she straightened her shoulders, inhaled, and said, in a clipped tone, "Welcome home." She nearly crinkled her nose at him, as if she were looking at something unpleasant, and then she quickly turned her attention to Ludwig, showering him with the affection she was denying Roderich.

Funny; she had been as irritable with Ludwig as she had been with Roderich. Maybe these months away had cleared her vision and let her see that she had been treating Ludwig unfairly.

"You've grown so much!" she gushed, taking his face in her hands as she smiled. And it was true; she now had to stand on the tips of her toes just to meet his eye level, and even then she fell short. "You're so handsome! I'm so proud of you." Words brought on by regret, perhaps.

Ludwig bowed his head, abashed at her praise, and she took him by the hand, pulling him towards the kitchen. "I'll make you some breakfast. You must be hungry."

Allowing her to lead him, Ludwig looked over at Roderich, clearly confused about the entire situation. Not for him to know. Why would he ever had burdened Ludwig with his failing marriage? Ludwig would have only blamed himself. Maybe he even would have gone back to Gilbert, to assuage the situation.

That was not preferable.

Roderich would have to figure it all out from here, because she had not put her ring back on.

Fading. Ludwig would know it soon.

Well, as they said, this too shall pass.

...when had it stopped bothering him so much?

Confident in himself for some reason, he stood and grabbed the suitcases, dragging them up the stairs.

When everything was settled in, he retreated into the foyer, passing her room silently, and he made a beeline for the first object he saw, throwing himself onto the loveseat. This was the first real moment he had had to gather himself from the journey back, and it felt like heaven just to relax for a moment.

Exhaustion hit hard.

Closing his eyes, he drifted in and out of sleep, and before long the sun began to break over the horizon.

He awoke when a hand fell on his shoulder, and when he looked up, Ludwig was hovering above him, smiling.

"Why don't you come and eat?"

Ludwig's hand. Warm, not hot.

Ludwig was healthy again. The best thing in the world.

"I'm not hungry at the moment," Roderich moaned, stretching his arms above his head, and when he lowered them he allowed himself to put his hand over Ludwig's.

Safe.

Ludwig stood there, calmly, and finally said, "Glad to be home, huh?"

"I'm never leaving this continent again," he replied, and was startled when Ludwig suddenly snatched his hand away. He only had a second to be mortified before Ludwig settled in next to him, turning his head to send Roderich an easy smile.

"You know," he began, "I never did thank you."

Roderich could only stare at him, struck not only by Ludwig's smile but also by just how goddamn nice he was.

How polite and how kind and how _sweet_.

Ludwig, who looked so frightening, was the sweetest person that Roderich had ever met in his life, and honestly, he didn't know how.

After everything, after all of it, how was Ludwig still so nice?

"Thank me for what?" he finally muttered, lowly. "For endangering you? For putting you in harm's way? For not doing my job of keeping you safe? I've done nothing for which you should be thankful." He laughed, weakly, and added, "I should be offering an apology."

Indeed he should. He had known all along that Africa could have been a potential disaster. Hadn't he told Erzsébet, after all, that she would be safer staying in Austria?

Ludwig had paid the price for his eagerness. Even now, months after he had left the hospital, Ludwig did not move quite as fluidly as before, his hearing seemed a little off, and there would always be the chance of a relapse, for years to come.

"You didn't do anything wrong."

"Well. Let's agree to disagree, alright?"

Ludwig opened his mouth, but Roderich denied him the opportunity to further this. "I'm hungry, all of a sudden," he said, and stood.

Ludwig smiled.

Life would go back to normal, and, in time, Ludwig would get better.

So would he.

* * *

"I'm so happy!"

"That's great," Gilbert supplied, resting his head in his folded arms, an untouched plate of food in front of him. Lovino was above him, hands on his hips and stalking back and forth. He glanced down at Gilbert every few seconds, and sighed at Gilbert's silence.

"Well? Aren't you going to eat? I cooked that, you bastard."

"I'm gettin' there," he replied, monotonously, even though he looked as though he had no intention of doing so.

"What's wrong with you?" Lovino suddenly cried, stomping his foot irritably. "You're horrible conversation today! Aren't you even going to ask why I'm happy?"

"I hadn't planned on it."

Suddenly without appetite, Gilbert buried his face in his arms and said, voice muffled, "Get me a box. I gotta go. I don't feel so great, I guess. I'll come back next week."

"I won't be here next week," Lovino snipped, testily, and Gilbert lifted his head from the table.

"Where are you going?"

"Back to Italy," he said, crossing his arms. "My idiot brother has been begging to see me, and I need to make sure he hasn't done anything stupid while I've been gone. And," he added, with a note of pride, "I'm going to join the army when I get back. So one day I can kick German ass!"

Sigh.

"Last time I saw, we were _allies_," Gilbert drawled, and paused thoughtfully. "You aren't even old enough to join the army, are you?"

Lovino's temper flared, and he slammed his fist on the table enthusiastically. "I'm already twenty, you bastard! I'm older than I look! What do you know?"

Immune to Lovino, Gilbert turned his eyes back down to the table, and, as an afterthought, asked, "You have a brother? How come you never talked about him?"

"When we were little, something bad happened. He got lost before grandpa could find him. He was gone for a long time, but he found us again, about a year ago. We've been writing since, but I haven't seen him."

Gilbert smiled a little.

So. Even Lovino had a sweeter side.

"He younger than you?"

Lovino nodded.

It was not a side of Lovino that he had ever expected to see, that was certain. The role of big brother did not seem to fit him.

Something else they had in common.

"Going all the way to Italy to see him, huh? Must love him a lot."

Lovino's cheeks flushed a bit, and he tried to wave off Gilbert's 'mushy' comments by biting back a little.

"Well. I lost him a long time ago, and I won't let anyone take him again. I have to protect him, because I'm older." Casting a distasteful gaze to Gilbert, he added, with obvious intent to wound, "_I'd_ go _anywhere_ to get _my_ brother back. I'd never let _anyone _take him right out from under me."

Ouch.

The words hurt, as much as Lovino had intended.

With that, Lovino turned his back and walked out, leaving Gilbert to watch the door thoughtfully.

Well...

If _Lovino _could do it.

Older brothers should go to the end of the earth.

In this case, the end of the earth was only in Vienna.

* * *

Roderich reached up, and scratched at his ear.

Must'a meant someone was thinking about him.

Or something like that.

No matter. It was great to finally play the piano again, and nothing could get him down.

Summer was just beginning, and Erzsébet had left to go into town, leaving him alone to do as he pleased. Sometimes, there was the thought in the back of his head that one day she would go out and just not come back.

She didn't need him.

If she ever did leave him, then she would not be leaving him alone.

The piano was always here.

There was little he did in his spare time, and it was too hot to go out and walk around, like Ludwig was prone to do. Rather, he was more comfortable sitting around and creating pieces of art with his fingers. It was more worthwhile when he had an audience, however, and when Ludwig came through the door, wiping the sweat from his brow, Roderich did not miss a beat.

Ludwig was here, too. So he wasn't ever alone.

...if she ever left.

Ludwig seemed to enjoy listening to the piano, as _she_ once had. Coming up silently behind, he watched, careful not to cause a distraction, and Roderich could feel Ludwig's eyes upon his fingers as the moved.

Finally, Roderich found an appropriate pause, and said, calmly, "Would you like to join me?"

He looked over his shoulder, and saw Ludwig's brows raise in skepticism and perhaps embarrassment. "I'm sorry," Ludwig began, shyly, "but I don't know how to play the piano."

"Of course you do," Roderich stated coolly, turning his eyes back to the keys before him. "I taught you."

The look Ludwig sent him was one of wonder.

Oh. If only Ludwig could _remember_. Maybe feeling the keys would bring back some of those old memories, of the times when Ludwig had been nestled on his lap and letting hands guide his own. Of those long gone days where they had sat together, just the two of them, plinking away on the piano, and after a while, Ludwig had been able to play simple pieces.

Who could know.

"Sit."

Ludwig did, reluctantly, and Roderich waved his hand over the keys. "Try it."

"I don't... I can't."

"You won't know if you don't try."

Ludwig shifted, agitated at being put on the spot, and he sent Roderich a testy look out of the corner of his eye. Roderich couldn't help but smile, and Ludwig turned his eyes back down to the piano as if it would harm him.

Well. No one wanted to make a fool of themselves.

Ludwig seemed reluctant to move, and finally Roderich reached out and took Ludwig's hands within his own, placing them gently on the keys.

Silence.

Everything was still.

Roderich had hoped that feeling the keys would trigger the motions, but Ludwig only stared down helplessly, looking so _lost_, and he whispered, "I don't remember..."

"It's alright."

Poor Ludwig. How horrible it must have felt, not to remember.

"Here," he began, and took Ludwig's fingers beneath his own, leading them on in a slow, simple melody. Ludwig looked somewhat embarrassed, although because of Roderich's hands or because of the act itself he could not say.

Ludwig's hands.

"Remember?"

Ludwig shook his head. That was alright; Roderich still led him on. One key at a time.

"Close you eyes."

Ludwig sent him an irritable glance, but did so all the same.

Lift here. Lower there.

Ludwig's fingers looked right on the keys, even if he didn't remember that they had ever been there in the first place. A few minutes of this same little melody, and then, one finger at the time, Roderich lifted his hands.

And after a while, Ludwig was just playing that tune on his own, without realizing it. Maybe memories were always there, even when they were thought to be forgotten.

Triumphant and _happy_, Roderich watched for a moment before saying, "Look."

Warily, Ludwig opened his eyes, thinking Roderich was trying something else, and when his eyes finally saw his own fingers moving, he was speechless. A long moment of silence, and then his fingers wrenched back from the piano as if burned, and he send Roderich an incredulous look, eyes bright and looking breathless.

Disbelief.

"You weren't lying..."

"Of course I wasn't."

He wouldn't do that. Not to Ludwig.

A twinge of something in Ludwig's eyes, a twitch of his lips, a lifting of his brow, and Roderich could see it, then, that something was coming back to Ludwig. Something from deep below, and oh, _God_, he could swear that Ludwig was on the brink of remembering—

A knock on the door startled them, and Ludwig turned his eyes up, and the moment was lost.

No breakthrough.

Ludwig turned back; that look was gone.

Gone.

Roderich could've cried for it. So close.

Gone, like the wind.

The anger rushed up like a tidal wave, and Roderich leapt to his feet, stalking off to the front door with the intent to raise holy hell at whoever had ruined this pivotal moment.

They would regret it.

As he approached the door, he made a point to stomp his feet as loudly as possible, to voice his displeasure long before he even spoke.

"Who is it?" he barked, grabbing the hand and yanking open the door without looking. "What the hell d'you want?"

A mistake.

He should never have opened the door.

Gilbert stood in the frame.

The world stopped.

Gilbert. Looking simultaneously worn down and yet strangely triumphant, pale hair glinting in the sun, he stood there, hands in his pockets and chin held high.

Roderich hated the sight of him. Like acid in his eyes. He opened his mouth, could find no words to describe his horror, and contented himself with glaring at his least favorite acquaintance.

He glared, alright, but his heart hammered away his fear. Anxiety.

What if Ludwig saw?

"Long time, no see, Roderich."

Hearing his name drawled in Gilbert's lazy, confident voice made him shudder, and he took a step back. "Not _nearly_ long enough."

Gilbert's wine eyes bored into his own with alarming intensity, and when the other moved suddenly, he jumped, feeling the rush of adrenaline as the flight response ran through his veins. He was no coward, but he was no fool; if confrontation with Gilbert was a forgone conclusion, he could not win outright.

He was so used to Gilbert's violent outbursts that maybe flinching around him had become instilled.

But nothing happened.

Gilbert's gaze suddenly broke, and he stood on his toes, trying to look over Roderich's shoulders into the house. There was no need to ask what he was searching for, but Roderich had no intention of letting him have it. Reaching out and gripping either side of the doorframe tightly, he said, firmly, "You have no business here."

Seemingly deaf to this declaration, Gilbert took a step forward, bringing himself chest to chest with the Austrian, popping up on his toes again to scope around.

"Where is he?" Gilbert asked, petulantly, and Roderich stiffened.

"What's it to _you_?"

Gilbert's self-confident air became tense as his eyes narrowed. "Let me in." He tried to push past, but Roderich refused to move, and the atmosphere began to crackle. "Let me _in_, I said!"

"This is _my_ house," Roderich spat back, "and I don't want you here."

He saw Gilbert's fists clench at his sides, and the flash of anger through Gilbert's eyes was a warning about the situation he was getting himself into. Gilbert was not someone to hear confrontational words and then just back off.

Not Gilbert.

"It's not so fun now, is it," Gilbert said, smiling breathlessly, "on the other side? Well! I'm here to take him back. You've had your say. Step aside."

He did not.

"Go home, Gilbert, before you do something you'll regret."

"Tell him I'm here."

"I won't. Go home."

Shuffling to either side restlessly, Gilbert's smile turned into a leer. "You're scared to, aren't you? You know he'll come back with me! That's it!"

Roderich opened his mouth, and froze.

That wasn't true. Ludwig would never leave such a secure place as this to go back to someone as unstable (financially and mentally) as Gilbert, and besides, Ludwig had called _him_. Ludwig would not go back.

...would he?

"Go _home_," Roderich repeated, and tried to shut the door, but Gilbert's swift foot blocked it. Already, this was turning into something problematic. "Gilbert!" he hissed, angrily, "I swear I'll call the police, and you know they won't have a problem hauling you off for _good_!"

Now it was Gilbert who froze, an unmistakeable fear in his eyes.

Gilbert's only fear, probably; the law. Before Roderich could use his upper hand to get rid of this nuisance, an interruption.

Suddenly Ludwig was behind him, asking, "Who is it?" curiously.

"No one," Roderich cried, and tried desperately to unhinge Gilbert before Ludwig could see him.

But he was too late, and in a flash Ludwig was at his side, a look of disbelief on his face.

"Gilbert?"

"Ludwig!"

As soon as Gilbert caught sight of Ludwig, the tense air about him evaporated and his hands relaxed, becomingly seemingly docile. A snarling doberman, placated with his favorite toy.

Ludwig pushed forward, burrowing his head between Roderich's arm and the door, and Roderich had no choice but to step aside. The jealousy in his chest was unpleasant, as Ludwig and Gilbert seemed drawn together like magnets.

Ludwig was very nearly beaming.

Hadn't seen that in a long time.

Roderich hated that it was Gilbert who could make Ludwig look like that.

"Ludwig," Gilbert began, eagerly, "Oh, Ludwig! I've come to..."

He trailed off, and then something in Gilbert shifted, suddenly, as was so common with him, and he stepped back as if abashed.

An odd silence, and Ludwig just stared at Gilbert like the sun had risen.

And, oh, how Roderich _hated_ Gilbert.

Gilbert's brow was lowering.

* * *

Gilbert was startled.

Maybe he had made some kind of mistake. A miscalculation.

This could not be Ludwig. The Ludwig that Roderich had stolen from him had been a boy of only fourteen, his height, and easy to push around, calm and sweet and obedient.

A kid. Growing, yeah, but still a kid.

This platinum-haired man, with perfectly neat clothing and intense eyes, was nothing like the kid he remembered. He was tall, taller now than Gilbert, with sharper features and a more serious air. Probably coulda cut something on that damn nose, and there was still that sheen of stubble on his cheeks, but it didn't look awkward anymore; just a man, now, not a gawky kid.

A man.

...not a kid.

_Oh._

And when this _man_ spoke, really spoke, for the first time, murmuring, "You came all the way here. I thought you hated me, Gilbert," he could hear the faintest traces of an elegant, upper-class accent creeping its way into the words. He had never talked like that before. And his voice was so _deep_ now, a daunting baritone that was almost more of a rumble, like thunder breaking the air.

He was sophisticated. He was intimidating.

Two years. It had only been two years. How could he have changed so much in two damn years?

Couldn't be Ludwig.

"I..."

His voice wouldn't come out. Not Ludwig.

Their eyes locked, then, and the thunder turned into lightening.

Those eyes. Ice. Piercing. No one else had eyes like that, not anyone he had ever met, and Gilbert was forced to accept that this was, indeed, Ludwig. It hurt a little, to admit.

Ludwig. He had grown up.

And Gilbert had not been around to see it, because of his own mistakes.

But that was alright; he could accept that as his punishment. As long as Ludwig came back with him now.

He could make up for two years.

"Ludwig," he cried, suddenly, "I! I really missed you!"

Lame, clumsy words, but it was he could think to say. He held out his arms beseechingly, then, as if proud Ludwig would have really run forward and leaped into them. Whether or not he actually would have didn't really matter; Roderich was still there, half in the way. In the end, to Gilbert's dismay, Ludwig seemed to feed off of Roderich's wary nature, and stood still, choosing instead to address Gilbert from the comfort of the door.

Was he that mistrustful of him?

His arms fell, slowly and awkwardly, and there had never been a time in his life when he had felt more foolish.

"Why are you here, Gilbert?" Ludwig finally asked. "Has something happened? Are you in trouble again?"

The suspicion in Ludwig's voice was hurtful, but he could not bring himself to blame him. After what he had done, and surely Roderich had been telling him horrible things...

He was the kinda guy who only reached out when he was in trouble, when he needed something, when he wanted something, so Ludwig was right to ask. That just wasn't the case this time, it wasn't, and if he could only make Ludwig understand.

Shaking his head, Gilbert said, lowly, "I just wanted to see. I _had_ to see you. I had to make sure that you were...okay."

Ludwig seemed pleased, but before he could speak, Roderich had interrupted.

"Of _course_ he is. You forget, perhaps, who he's been with."

Right. Know it all.

In the back of his mind, he knew that Roderich was right. Of course Ludwig was alright. Roderich was here to take care of him, and Roderich could do everything right. Roderich could give Ludwig everything.

But still...

Before he could even say anything in his defense, Roderich had decided that it was better for him to speak and regain control of the situation. Gilbert hated the sound of his voice as much as he ever had, but arguing in front of Ludwig had been a mistake he had already made once, long ago.

Best not to do it again.

If possible.

"You'll be pleased to know," Roderich began, in a deep tone, "that he's been doing something with himself here. Already a diplomat in the making." Roderich put his hand down on Ludwig's shoulder, and oh, God, how it _burned_ him. The words, and the gesture.

Ludwig, turning into Roderich.

A fear he had never even known he had.

"Yeah, right! Who'd ever want to be like you?" Gilbert threw back, agitated and a little wounded, and Ludwig sent him a warning glare. He shut his mouth, and tried to stay calm.

Roderich had already bristled, though, and once they started...

"It was kind of you to visit," Roderich ground out, "but I'm afraid our time is very pressed at the moment. Perhaps another day."

No.

"I'm not visiting. I'm taking him _home_. Now."

Roderich fell still, and the look on his face was that of a man whose world had come to a halt, as Ludwig's low brow flew up in what could shock.

Gilbert had hoped that Ludwig would have smiled, but he didn't. Instead, he turned pale eyes to Roderich, and then back to Gilbert, as he opened his mouth and foundered every word that tried to come out.

"I...! That's...! Well. I... I..."

Ludwig was hesitating. Not leaping on the opportunity.

Gilbert's confidence fell, and his attitude grew in its place.

"Get your things, kid. We're leaving."

Immediately, Ludwig's brow creased back down, and he said, firmly, "I'm not a kid anymore, Gilbert."

He knew it, but it hurt, so he said it anyway.

Agitated and feeling hurt for whatever reason, Gilbert just stuck his hands in his pockets and repeated, "Get your things."

Ludwig stood there, still and silent, and from the look on his face... It didn't really seem like he _wanted_ to leave.

Had he not been forgiven yet?

Roderich shook himself free of his stupor, and shoved his arm before Ludwig, once again blocking the door.

"He's not going anywhere! You had your chance, you failed. Go home, Gilbert. If he wanted to go back, he would've gone already. When he's ready, he'll look for you. Go home."

The words were true, and he hated Roderich for it.

Any calm he had been clinging to fled out the window, and he let his anger lead his words.

"What do you know about anything? How do you know what he wants? You! You've probably been tellin' him all kinds of stuff about me, haven't you? You've probably been tryin' to turn him against me this whole time! You were always like that! You always wanted him to like you the best! Well, _you failed_ at that, because you're nothin' to him, hell, he can't even remember ya, and he's my _brother_! He's _MY_ brother!"

"Stop it," Ludwig hissed, glowering at Gilbert for all he was worth, but it was too late.

Gilbert could dish out hateful words like an expert, sure, but Roderich could throw it back just as well. It was exactly three seconds of silence, three long seconds, before Roderich stepped completely in front of Ludwig, hanging halfway out of the door as his bomb of a temper exploded.

The shockwave was painful.

"_Stop calling him that_!" Roderich roared, pushing Ludwig back a bit harshly, and, for the first time in their lives together, it was Roderich who reached out physically, and shoved Gilbert backwards as hard as he could. Gilbert staggered, not greatly, but the act itself stunned him.

Roderich had never lashed out first. Never first.

Ludwig seemed stunned, too, and could only gawk at them from behind, looking rather horrified.

Roderich pushed him again. "_Stop_ it! Stop! Don't call him that! Will you just _stop_? You don't _deserve _to call him that!"

Ludwig reached out and touched Roderich's arm to pull him back, but was shaken off.

Gilbert couldn't even open his mouth.

When Roderich started, it was not easy to stop. Gilbert knew, because, in the end, maybe he and Roderich hated each other so much because they saw themselves there across the way.

"It's _always_ been like that with you! _My_ brother! _My brother_! But who are you to him? You're _nobody_! _I'm_ the one who's been trying to set an example for him! _I'm_ the one who's been trying to make sure he _makes_ something of himself! And _I'm_ the one he should have _stayed_ with, but you thought you could handle it by yourself, and you just _had_ to keep him, instead of writing to me and telling me that you found him! Yeah, he doesn't remember me, but so what? What does that matter, huh? Who cares who he remembers? All that matters is who's lookin' out for him, and you! Even when you think you're doing good, you're still a self-serving, selfish, immature sellout! You're nothing! Con artist that you are! You'd have him take after you instead? Huh? You want him hustlin' the streets like _you_? You would have gotten him killed! Or worse! You'd have turned him into _you_! You don't have it in you to be a brother! Who would ever want _you_ as a brother?"

Roderich's voice had started cracking towards the end of his tirade, but Gilbert had cracked long before that.

Hurt.

The words felt more like needles. Every prick deflated him a little more.

Suddenly...

Roderich trailed off a bit as his anger came to its crescendo, and when his arms fell limp at his sides, eyes suddenly tired, he just shook his head, and summed up quite breathlessly,"Get out of here. He's not going with you. I don't want you to come back here again, Gilbert. Not ever again. Go home."

Suddenly, going home was all he wanted to do.

With that, Roderich turned his back to Gilbert, and cast him aside.

He could dish it out. Yeah.

Roderich could just throw it back better.

Roderich could hurt him, more than he could ever hurt Roderich. Roderich was immune, because, hell, what was the worst anyone could say about Roderich? That he was cheap? Too responsible? Too safe?

That he had cared too much?

Gilbert couldn't wound Roderich like that because Roderich did everything right.

The thing that hurt most of all, more than anything, was that not once during Roderich's outburst had Ludwig opened his mouth and come to his defense. Not once. Nothing.

Didn't deserve it, anyway. Everything Roderich said was true. Every word, no matter how painful, was true.

Swallowing and trying to keep his face brave, even thought he wanted to cry, Gilbert lifted up his chin, turned on his heel, and stalked off.

He was a con. Did that mean he couldn't care about Ludwig as much as Roderich did?

He heard footsteps behind him, as he slid back down the drive, and he assumed Roderich was coming to make sure he actually left the premises. He would, no doubt. Let Ludwig stay, if that was what he wanted.

If he meant so little to Ludwig, then let him stay.

Someone grabbed his upper arm, and tried to hold him still.

He knew who it was then; Roderich would never touch him like that. Still, he walked, and refused to be pulled back. Too late. He couldn't even bring himself to look over his shoulder and look at Ludwig.

What was the point?

An irritating jolt, as Ludwig gave a great tug.

"Gilbert! Stop, please! Wait."

"Get off."

He tried to shake Ludwig's hand off, but as much as he had gotten taller, Ludwig had gotten stronger, too.

"Just! Just listen to me! _Wait_, Gilbert!"

His head was hurting. Ludwig just wouldn't let go.

Why?

Ludwig wanted to stay. Why prolong it?

"Get _off _me!"

Ludwig didn't let go, and Gilbert's temper got the better of him again. He whirled around, nicking Ludwig in the eye with his fist as he did so. Once, hitting Ludwig would have horrified him. Not now. His chest hurt too much to worry about it.

He reached out, shoving Ludwig as Roderich had shoved him, and cried, in an attempt to wound as he had been wounded, "What are you doin'? Just go back up! He's right, you know! You really are makin' something of yourself out here. You're already turning into an aristocrat, just like him! You fit right in here, don't you?This was what you always wanted, wasn't it? Well, you got it! Go back up! You don't need a brother anymore. Don't need me! And you know what? I don't need you, either!"

He shoved Ludwig again, back towards the house.

"So go! Go on! I never needed you! Not ever. I'm better off without you, anyway! I don't have to take care of some stupid _kid_ anymore! I can do whatever I want now! Don't have to worry about it! So leave me alone, and just stay! I'm _glad_ you're gone!"

Ludwig stood there, looking so _sad_ all of a sudden, and Gilbert couldn't understand why. Why? Why be sad? Ludwig was happy here, right?

It might have occurred to him, then, that Ludwig didn't open his mouth in his own defense, either. Ludwig, who stood there and took it when people screamed at him. Ludwig, who didn't like to fight. Ludwig's silence before had been that of uncertainty, not agreement, but it was easier to pretend that Ludwig had just believed everything Roderich had said.

Finally, Ludwig just shook his head, standing there across from Gilbert, and at last he spoke.

His voice was low, and mournful.

His eye was already turning red.

"You're the stupid one, Gilbert. Not me."

Stupid.

He opened his mouth, found nothing, and instead turned around and continued his trek down to the street. This time, no one followed him, and no one reached out to pull him back.

Gilbert left Ludwig in the dust.

In the end, no matter what, he always wound up fucking Ludwig over.

Ludwig was better off without him.

The world woulda been better off without him.

He was nothing without Ludwig.

Never had been.

* * *

Regret.

Why couldn't he ever keep his mouth shut? Why couldn't keep hold of his temper?

So many times he asked himself these same questions.

Roderich stood by the door, feeling sick and guilty, and oh, God, if Ludwig didn't come walking back up, he would just go into his room and cry himself to death. Stupid. So stupid.

Had he not learned his lesson all those years ago?

It felt like hours, as he watched the hill of the drive to see if a blond head would suddenly come back into view.

The longest wait of his life.

Finally, mercifully, a glint of white in the light, and Roderich breathed out a sigh of relief when he saw Ludwig ambling slowly back upwards. His excitement dulled, a little, when he saw the slow, heavy steps, and the way Ludwig's head was hanging.

Defeat.

The closer he got, the worse Roderich felt.

Was that a bruise on his face?

Step by step, and Ludwig drew ever close, never once lifting up his eyes. When the creak of the stairs woke him up a little, Roderich reached out, and tried to guide Ludwig back inside.

"Ludwig, you alright? Here, let me..."

It startled him, when Ludwig fell still and finally looked up at him, sending him a look that would have terrified a dog. Ludwig had never looked at him like that. Roderich honestly hadn't thought that Ludwig could look at _anyone_ like that.

Without a word, Ludwig pushed past him, and began a straight path to his bedroom.

Roderich wasn't even sure if he wanted to follow.

His fault.

So stupid.

As Ludwig neared the stairs, Roderich just called, anxiously, "I'm sorry."

Ludwig paused for a second, and Roderich could see him shake his head.

"I was going to stay," he finally said, so low that Roderich struggled to hear. "If you could've just waited. I was going to tell him that I was going to stay. All you had to do was wait." Then he carried on, and was gone.

_Oh_.

Stupid.

He would be surprised if Ludwig ever spoke to him after that.

Ludwig never touched the piano again.


	8. January 16, 1914

**A/N** : Now that we are in 1914, we have left behind the year-based chapters, and now are in more specifically date-based chapters.

* * *

Chapter 7

**January 16th, 1914**

"I'm leaving."

Ludwig had been acting strange the entire day, pacing back and forth through the house as though in a trance. Roderich hadn't thought too much of it in the morning; Ludwig was always a little out of it at first light, especially now that he was not sleeping well. But as the day wore on, his mood did not change, and his eyes refused to clear up.

It was unusual, to say the least, and Roderich had caught him pacing in the kitchen at noon or so, a plate of uneaten lunch on the table, and Ludwig paying it no mind as he continued to glide over the tile, lost in his own world.

Roderich had approached cautiously, and asked if he was feeling sick. Some part of him had almost hoped that he _was_, because otherwise it was probably going to be something less pleasant. But Ludwig had merely shook his head, slowly, and carried on. Roderich, though intrigued (and worried), left it alone for the rest of the afternoon, giving the blond his space.

It was mid-evening when he dared try again, and when he went looking for Ludwig, he found him up in the attic, staring vacantly out the window, tapping one foot furiously and chewing his thumbnail. The pacing earlier had been strange enough, but this behavior seemed nervous, uncertain, and Ludwig was rarely uncertain. Now truly worried, he had shut the door, and approached quietly from behind. Ludwig didn't hear him coming, and that was strange too, and had jumped when Roderich touched his shoulder.

Once again, he had asked if he was feeling well, and this time Ludwig only stared at him with wide eyes, almost guiltily, and began to fidget as though trapped in a cage. Without answering Roderich's inquiry, he stepped around him clumsily, making for the door. Roderich called to him, and was ignored.

The thoughts running through his mind about Ludwig's abnormal demeanor was weighing him down, and by nightfall, he felt nauseas.

What had happened to make Ludwig so uneasy?

They had been doing so well the past few weeks. After the unfortunate altercation with Gilbert, it had been a solid two months before Ludwig had even spoken to him, and that was only after he had broken down, pushed away his pride, and knocked incessantly at the door until he had been humored. Ludwig forgave him, perhaps reluctantly, and things had returned to being as normal as possible. They hadn't fought about Gilbert. They hadn't argued. They hadn't even disagreed with each other. Ludwig was calm and quiet, and Roderich had assumed he was happy again.

It seemed impossible that he had done something wrong _this_ time.

But now...

Ludwig couldn't even stay in the same room with him.

The possibilities were driving him crazy, and he ambled off into the foyer, once again seeking Ludwig. And once again, he found him; he was resting in the corner, arms crossed above his chest. Roderich approached, warily, but Ludwig was not off guard this time, and saw him coming.

He met his eyes now, and before Roderich could even open his mouth, Ludwig had taken one step forward, and murmured, seriously, "I'm leaving."

The air turned stale.

Leaving...

He didn't even need to ask what he meant; he knew immediately what was being said.

Ludwig was leaving, to go back to Prussia.

To go back to Gilbert.

He didn't even have time to gather himself before Ludwig, head hanging, continued. "I'm sorry. You've done so much for me, and I didn't even warn you. But the more I think about it, the more I know that I have to go back." He tried to smile, shrugging one shoulder helplessly. "He needs me more than you do..."

Hurt and stunned, he could only nod weakly, and whisper, "Of course he does."

"I'm sorry," Ludwig repeated, but he shook his head, not hearing.

"You should get your things ready, and I'll... I'll take you back."

There was an awkward silence, and Ludwig said, softly, "You don't have to do that. I've got a train ticket..."

He looked up now, brow furrowed. When would Ludwig possibly have had time to get out without him noticing to buy a train ticket? To do so, he would have had to go out into the city, and that was too long a walk, and Ludwig didn't even know his way around.

"How-"

"Erszébet took me, yesterday."

"Ah."

It came together, and felt the betrayal intensify. Erszébet had intentionally gone behind his back, to get Ludwig back to Gilbert. But why? For what reason? She had claimed to enjoy Ludwig living in the house, and hadn't it been her idea, years ago, for him to try and find him?

She had suggested something, then, because he was certain that Ludwig would not have decided to leave so precipitously on his own.

"I'll be going in the morning."

At a loss for words, he could only nod his head, and turned away. Behind him, he barely heard the miserable, 'I'm sorry', that followed him.

He had something else to attend to, and someone had to answer for the burning in his chest. He could not bring himself, even now, to take out his frustrations on Ludwig.

Especially when Erszébet was exactly where he expected her to be; outside, tromping around in the snow, the darkness and cold seemingly unaffecting her. His shadow in the dim light alerted her to his presence, and she turned to him, face pink from the chill.

"Roderich," she called, and the surprise in her voice was evident. "Care to join me?" She smiled up at him, and added, pointedly, "It's been years since we've had any fun together." He could see her balling up snow in her hand, and decided to cut to the chase.

"Why start now?" he snipped, and her face fell.

"What do you want, then?" she grumbled, kicking the snow irritably as she turned away. "Shouldn't you be in bed already? Late night always made you so disagreeable..."

Ignoring her jab, he took a step forward, but stopped short, reluctant to step into the wet snow, and contented himself with staying on the porch, hissing, "What have you done?"

She straightened up, and caught his wrathful gaze easily.

"I assume he's told you, then."

Her casual attitude raised his ire, as well as his voice, and he cried, "What did you tell him? What on earth could _possibly_ have possessed you to talk him in to going back _there_?" He pointed dramatically to the east for emphasis. "Don't you understand what you've done? Don't you know what could happen to him? Gilbert could-"

"He's not happy here, Roderich! Can't you see it?" She rounded on him so furiously that he fell back, losing his voice. "You've spent so much time trying to prove that you're better than Gilbert that you don't even know anything about either of them!" She stomped forward, coming up so near him that he could feel her breath on his face.

In the back of his mind, he realized that this was the closest they had been in years.

"Do you think that taking him away from Gilbert would make him happy? Maybe it made _you _happy, but what have you done for him? He's been in more danger traveling with _you_ than he ever was back in Prussia! And you've never even stopped to ask him if he liked it here, or if he was homesick, or if he missed Gilbert. You don't think about things like that. All you see when you look at him is someone that you can mold into the perfect version of you. You couldn't do that with Gilbert," She shrugged a shoulder restlessly, "and you couldn't do it with me. But Ludwig listens to you. He looks up to you. He would be just like you, down to the last detail, if he stayed here long enough... I told him to go home. I bought him a ticket."

Roderich, hurt and frustrated, could only shake his head, and whisper, "Why?"

"I don't want..." She turned away, something in her stance changing, and her voice became low with emotion. "I couldn't bear to have another you in this house."

She pushed past him, wiping her eyes with her sleeve, leaving him in solace on the porch. He did not go after her, having no desire to do so, as her sharp words repeated themselves in his mind.

She was mistaken. Ludwig meant more to him than that, he always had. Maybe he didn't show it well, and maybe he had gone about this whole situation the wrong way...

And what if it was true, what she said? Was Ludwig so unhappy in Austria that was obvious even to Erszébet, who spoke so rarely to him? If so, how could he have missed it? He, who saw Ludwig every day, who was with him every possible opportunity. Perhaps he was too close, or maybe...

Maybe he had seen it, and had ignored it. If Ludwig was in Austria, _he_ was happy, and maybe it didn't matter as much if Ludwig's happiness was less than sincere. But that would make him selfish, wouldn't it, putting his own feeling over Ludwig's... He had been doing so, for years now, then.

He sank into a chair, resting his elbows on his knees, bowing his head.

He had become everything he hated about Gilbert.

When dawn broke over the horizon, he could not bring himself to see Ludwig off.

He didn't deserve to.

* * *

Three years, and five days.

It had been three years and five days since Ludwig, whisked out under Roderich's assumed authority, had left him. And three years was a long time.

So why did it still sting?

Staring listlessly at his ceiling, Gilbert, arms crossed behind his head, still struggled to comprehend. Alright, he could concede that it was (perhaps) understandable that Ludwig, worried and trying to teach him a lesson, had run off to Austria, but...

He could not understand why he had been rebutted in Vienna, only a few months earlier.

Hadn't he gone out, worn his heart on his sleeve, begging Ludwig to return to him? He had pushed aside his pride, and dignity. He had been _so_ certain that Ludwig would have forgiven him by now.

And he would have come back, if Roderich hadn't interfered. Of that, there was no doubt. Because he had done all he could, hadn't he?

Shifting restlessly, he sighed as he rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in the bed.

Who was he kidding?

He hadn't begged. He hadn't even said anything heartfelt.

He had shown up at Roderich's house, something he himself had been so angry about when Roderich had done it to him, demanded to see Ludwig, and when he finally _had_, what did he do? He had not asked Ludwig how he had been. He hadn't asked him if he liked it in Vienna. If he had wanted to stay...

Why would Ludwig have gone back with someone who showed up unannounced and tried to drag him out by force?

And when Roderich had said what he had said, he did not stop to listen to Ludwig, losing himself (as he always did) to his temper. He had had so many chances, and he had ruined each and every one of them.

Maybe it was time that he finally came to terms with himself, and realize that he had lost to a better man.

Ludwig was not coming home.

Pulling himself from his bed, he stepped in front of the mirror, observing himself. He looked nothing like he felt; even now, humbled and worn down, his face belied nothing but confidence and self-satisfaction, despite the fact that he felt neither. He met his own gaze, and could not read himself. His eyes were guarded and cool.

He looked, in every sense of the word, like a manipulator.

A con.

It was no great wonder that Roderich held no trust for him, and even Ludwig had some sort of mistrust.

What else could one feel, looking at such a man?

He hated himself.

Turning away, he forced himself out of his room, treading down the stairs gently. He could not stay in this house forever, but leaving seemed even less desirable. What was the point?

Hauling himself into the kitchen, he rummaged through the cabinets, pulling out a half-consumed bottle of brandy and throwing himself down at the table. Getting drunk in the middle of the morning was obviously not a solution to his problems, but it seemed like a damn good substitute for now.

Tossing back a shot and wincing as the liquid burned the back of his throat, he slammed the glass onto the table, and cried, to no one, "Fuck the both of you!"

The morning went by too fast.

* * *

The first thing that Ludwig noticed, as the house in the distance came into view, was how unkempt it was.

It had been three years since he had seen it, but he clearly remembered the green lawn, the trimmed hedges, the clipped vines, and the almost methodical neatness that Gilbert had groomed the yard into over the years. And even though he knew now that it had been part of Gilbert's cover, it was nonetheless distressing to see how things had become.

The grass was all but dead, and he could tell that it had been that way long before winter. The hedges were overgrown and wild, and the vines that climbed up the house had taken over. It looked like a dead house from another time, not the warm home he had left it as.

Maybe, he thought in sudden alarm, Gilbert didn't even live here anymore.

How terrifying. Where would he go then? And what if something had happened to Gilbert? It would be his fault, after all, for having left him to his own destructive devices.

Quickening his pace, he abandoned his suitcase on the steps, bringing his fist down on the door mercilessly.

"Gilbert? Are you here?"

There was no response, and he knocked again, moaning, "Gilbert! Please open the door! You have to be here..."

And he was, but when the door swung open, his relief died as fast as it had come.

Standing in the frame was not the alert, sure Gilbert that had come for him in Austria. Leaning against the wood carelessly, pale hair uncombed and sticking out in every direction, cheeks flushed and pupils dilated, was a man barely recognizable.

And for a moment, he fell back, uncertain.

"Gilbert?" he whispered, and a harsh, sharp laugh was his only response, as Gilbert crossed his arms over his chest unsteadily, leering.

"Gilbert... I wanted-"

"Look what the cat dragged in," Gilbert interrupted, and the tone of his usually smooth voice was acidic. "Did ya get kicked out? I was wonderin' when he would get sick of ya."

Ludwig shook his head, feeling the sting in his chest, and Gilbert added, "Do you need something? If not, I'd go back, 'cause you don't live here anymore and I'm not rentin' rooms...at the moment."

"I..." He trailed off, unsure of how to defend himself, but when Gilbert suddenly stumbled backwards, he could only shake his head again. "You're drunk," he said aloud, in realization, and sighed.

This wasn't exactly the homecoming he had expected.

"Maybe I am," Gilbert drawled, reaching for the door. "What's it to you? Go home. I'm busy."

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and backed away. "I shouldn't have come here."

"Yeah, you shouldn't've. Go away."

"...alright."

Disappointed and angry, Ludwig grabbed his suitcase in his hand and turned away, trudging back down the steps in shame.

He had been a fool (and an egotist) to think that anything would have changed in his absence. He did not mean enough to Gilbert for anything drastic to have happened. Maybe Roderich had been right all along.

"Go on," Gilbert cried from behind, and in his inebriated state, he was satisfied at the swift retreat.

How dare Ludwig come back here, after so long, wanting to return as if nothing had happened. He wouldn't stand for it. He could go back to Roderich, where he belonged, and life would go on.

Life always went on...

Grabbing his forehead, Gilbert squeezed his eyes shut, the throbbing in his head not the only thing causing him pain. There was no possible way he could explain to Ludwig, even if he had been sober, how much pain he had caused when he had left him. There was not way that he could articulate such feelings. Aggression was so much easier, and pretending that he was fine without Ludwig was only another front.

But, God...

Squinting crimson eyes in the winter sun, he watched as Ludwig walked down those steps again with a suitcase, as he had years ago, and felt a splash of cold dread in his chest.

He was a coward.

Ludwig was leaving. How could he let history repeat itself? Could he not swallow his pride, even for a moment? If he hadn't been intoxicated, it would almost have been a certainty that he could not.

But filled with fear at losing Ludwig again, he staggered forward, moaning, "Wait..."

Ludwig did not hear him, and seeing him disappearing into the distance stirred him from his stupor. Bolting forward as fast as he could on wobbly, unbalanced legs, he gave chase, crying, "Ludwig! Stop!"

Looking over his shoulder, Ludwig paused hesitantly, but it was enough for him to catch up and throw himself forward, grabbing Ludwig's coat and tugging him back, mewling, "Don't go..."

"Let go," Ludwig said, sternly but gently, and tried to pull back. But Gilbert refused to unclench his fist, and buried his face in the crook of Ludwig's neck as he was threatened by tears, banging his fists down on the tall blond's chest.

"You bastard," he cried, voice muffled by the fabric of Ludwig's coat. "You're going to leave me again..."

"Gilbert, why do you always have to make things so difficult?"

"You hate me," he whispered, and, the excitement proving too much, he lost himself to dizziness as the world went black.

* * *

What time was it?

Shifting miserably as the pain in his head intensified, Gilbert could not be sure, but when he finally opened his eyes, the room was dark. Clutching his head, he pulled himself into a sitting position, and realized he was on the sofa. How had he gotten there?

And then he noticed the light in the kitchen, and felt his breath leave him when he realized Ludwig was watching him intensely from the doorframe.

"How is your head?" he asked, lowly, and stepped forward.

He felt awful, but he wasn't going to say as much, and only shrugged a shoulder, remembering (with shame) his previous actions.

Humiliating.

Pulling the blanket that had been thrown over him up to his chin, he eyed Ludwig casually and quipped, "Shouldn't you be going now?"

But Ludwig only shook his head in exasperation, and disappeared into the kitchen. Gilbert watched him go, and when he came back it was with a cup of coffee.

"Here."

Shoving the mug into Gilbert's hands, he sat himself down, and Gilbert shifted uneasily under his knowing gaze.

"I missed you too," he suddenly said, and Gilbert flushed. "I just wish that you could talk to me more..."

Irritated and in pain, Gilbert could only look over and murmur, "Why did you come back?"

"Because."

With that, Ludwig leaned back, and watched him calmly as he nursed his mug. Despite the fact that 'because' was a completely useless and evasive answer, he did not wish to follow up, not now, and glanced at Ludwig when he thought he wasn't looking.

He almost smiled.

Ludwig was so handsome now, there was no doubt, and he could not push away the pride that rose up within him. Ludwig was a good person, that was easy to see, and he could only hope that his efforts had had something to do with that.

But Roderich had had his input too, and he could see it, even in the dim light. Ludwig had perfect posture, even seated, a natural elegance and poise running through him. And he kept his voice as soft and neat as his hair, and even now, coming back from such a long journey and hauling Gilbert inside the house, there was not a wrinkle in his clothes.

Not a detail out of place.

Looking down at his mug, he frowned. It had been so long since he had spoken with Ludwig. He didn't even know anything about him anymore. He was sitting next to a stranger.

"Did you like it there?" he inquired, suddenly, and when Ludwig smiled, his heart fell. "I guess you and _him_ got on pretty good, huh?"

There was no need to ask who '_he_' was, and Ludwig shook his head, whispering, "What does it matter? I'm here now. You don't need to talk about him..."

"Good," he snipped, and fell silent.

Next to him, Ludwig sighed, and he wished that he could think before he spoke. Why was it that whenever he opened his mouth, it was with something smart and insincere?

"Ludwig, I..."

He paused, and, gathering himself, he managed to say, weakly, "I love you. I've always loved you."

There was a stillness, and finally, Ludwig looked over at him, thoughtfully.

"I know," he said, and rested his head on Gilbert's shoulder in a rare display of affection.

Gilbert did not respond, feeling a breathless smile creep over his face.

His heart felt full.

* * *

**Next chapter** : Things are going well. Too well, and maybe destiny was never on either of their sides...


	9. May 23, 1914

Chapter 8

**May 23rd, 1914**

It was raining again.

Standing inert, hands tucked in his pockets, Gilbert watched through the foggy glass as the puddles on the ground continued to grow.

It had been raining the entire week. Occasionally a storm had come along, fierce thunder shaking the house as wind rattled the windows, making the outdoors temporarily uninhabitable. But Gilbert didn't mind it; quite the contrary.

The more time the weather was awful, the more time Ludwig stayed inside with him.

And so it was now, as Ludwig came wandering into the room, book in hand. Gilbert watched him silently, thoughtfully, and couldn't help but smile when the blond nearly ran into the mantle.

Ludwig was still an enigma, even though he had had him back for nearly five months. He was still studying him, and it was almost a full-time job. When he thought he had figured one thing out, something else had arisen.

This new obsession with books, for instance.

"I don't remember you ever reading so much," he said, softly, and Ludwig glanced up at him briefly as he settled down on the sofa.

A simple, "Hn," was his only response, and Gilbert settled down next to him.

There wasn't always much conversation around Ludwig, that much was certain. But he couldn't complain about that either, as long as Ludwig didn't mind his constant staring. And he didn't seem to.

Resting his chin in his palm, he watched Ludwig serenely, completely content.

He had not felt this way in years; calm, secure in himself, and almost lethargic. He had had no desire to leave the house since Ludwig had returned, and it was such a burden off of his shoulders to know that he could sit back and relax, and not wonder where or how Ludwig was.

He felt younger.

And, thank God, Ludwig had not asked him anything about how he was providing for himself. He would have had no good answer, but Ludwig acted as though he almost didn't want to know. But he felt guilty nonetheless. He knew, deep down, that Ludwig had left in the first place in a desperate attempt to get him to change his ways. How could he look him in the eyes and tell him that it had not worked?

A shift beside him brought him from his reverie, as Ludwig jumped when a sudden clap of thunder crashed overhead.

"Damn," he cursed, softly, and Gilbert's smile widened into a grin.

"Scared?" he crooned, reaching out and wrapping an arm around Ludwig's shoulders. Ludwig merely glanced over at him through narrowed eyes, but did not tense under his touch.

Some of the trust that he had lost was returning.

He couldn't ask for more.

Feeling bold and longing to interact, Gilbert leaned forward and asked, smoothly, "Ludwig, how old are you now?" even though he already knew.

"I'm eighteen," Ludwig responded, turning back to his book, and Gilbert sighed loudly.

"That's old enough!" he cried, pulling himself to his feet, and as he stomped into the kitchen, he could feel Ludwig's eyes boring into his back.

"Old enough for _what_?"

When he returned, both hands full- in one two glasses the other a bottle - Ludwig's brow came down severely, and he answered, "Old enough to drink with your brother, of course!" He set the glasses down on the coffee table, pulling the top off the bottle with ease.

He did not miss the unease in Ludwig's form as he shifted from side to side.

"I don't think..."

"Nonsense! I've missed too many birthdays now. Drink with me."

Ignoring Ludwig's flimsy, mild protests, he poured enough alcohol in each glass to empty the bottle and shoved one forward. "Here. A little alcohol never hurt anyone."

"I'm sure that's argumentative," Ludwig mumbled, but took the glass nonetheless. Bringing it up to his nose, he shrank back at the smell. "How do you drink this?"

Figuring that actions spoke louder than words, he took his own glass and swallowed as much as he could, shivering as it burned the back of his throat. "Like that," he rasped, and watched as Ludwig tried to follow his lead, though less successfully, nearly choking on a mere sip.

"It's gonna take you all night to finish it like _that_," he said, crossing his arms and thinking that Ludwig was, maybe, too impressionable.

"What's the rush?"

He paused, and sat down.

"You're right."

There wasn't a rush, and he was happy enough to keep Ludwig entertained, and as the dim light from outside turned into no light at all, he lit the fire place, noting that Ludwig's vocabulary extended greatly with a little brandy.

He had long since finished his portion, and was floating. But he was no light weight, and the sun had barely dipped below the horizon when Gilbert finally came down from the clouds.

Ludwig was sky-high.

"...I never knew that there were so many museums in Vienna. We went one day, and I could swear we went to at least ten. And then we went to Pedabust... Or..."

Gilbert smiled as Ludwig trailed off, face scrunched up in thought.

"Budapest?" he offered, and Ludwig clapped his hands.

"Yeah, that."

He carried on, and Gilbert leaned back into the sofa, not intoxicated, but certainly warm. He closed his eyes, the sound of Ludwig's deep, smooth voice comforting.

But he kept brushing against him.

Looking over through heavy eyes, he caught sight of Ludwig, and, in his hazy mind, was enraptured.

When had he become so beautiful?

Hair glowing white and eyes golden in the firelight, with sharp, chiseled features and an amicable, gentle air, he seemed more of an untouchable deity on earth than a boy. A man, he corrected himself. He wasn't a child anymore, and it was something that he would have to force himself to get used to.

But he was looking forward to it.

If he had been stone-cold sober, would he still have felt the rush of warm attraction that was swimming through his veins? Probably.

He had been so lonely, these last years, and he had never been attracted to anyone for as long as he could remember. No one appealed to him, and most of his adult life had been centered around the care and notion of Ludwig. He had known no one else, and it was only normal that, after so long, he had taken his feelings of platonic adoration and stepped them up. Wasn't it?

He was in love. He could feel it.

He was only human.

No one wanted to be alone forever.

And Ludwig was old enough now to make his own decisions, and if he tried to make a move, it wouldn't be as though Ludwig didn't have the right to reject him. He could take it.

But if Ludwig accepted?

The thought made him shiver, and he turned his attention back to the blond, who was still prattling mindlessly, if not clumsily, oblivious to his internal dialogues.

"...I thought a lot about what I wanted to do later on. I really liked going to other countries. Maybe I'll do something where I could travel. I thought about being an ambassador, like Roderich, but it seems like such hard work, and he's never home, which is why I guess he and Erszébet aren't really even together anymore. Or I thought maybe I could try getting another job under the Empire, I'd like that, I think..."

One sentence in particular caught his attention, and he looked up.

"Wait. They're not...together?"

"They still live together, but..."

"But they're not in love?"

Ludwig only shook his head, and Gilbert looked away in disbelief. That was not something he had expected, not after Erszébet had been so enamored with Roderich when they were younger. But then, it had most likely been Roderich (who he never could read) who had dealt the final blow. But why? Marriage was something that Roderich held in high regard. He wouldn't abandon it lightly, not without reason, unless...

Unless...

Filled with a sudden dread, he could not help the thought that squirmed into his mind.

It was wrong and ridiculous, but he had to ask.

He had to know.

"Ludwig, did you... I mean, did you and Roderich ever..." He bowed his head, and, struggling for words and afraid to hear the answer, he managed to finish, weakly, "Did he love you, d'you think?"

It was possible wasn't it? It couldn't have been a coincidence that Roderich and Erszébet's marriage dissolved around the time Ludwig went to stay with them, and he had always suspected that Roderich's interests were not limited to women. But still he expected Ludwig to laugh, to say that he was crazy, and how could he think such a thing?

But...

There was a heavy pause, and Ludwig said, softly, "Sometimes... I thought, maybe... Because of the way he looked at me... But he never said anything. He just seemed so unhappy all the time..."

Gilbert shifted, disliking the whimsical tone of his voice, as though he were thinking back on a fond, cherished memory.

Heart full of jealousy, he asked, resentfully, "Did you love _him_?"

There was another pause that made his chest hurt, and then Ludwig laughed, strangely, and said, "Gilbert, you're so weird sometimes!"

Sensing that he was on new ground that he did not particularly want to disturb, he shut his mouth and leaned back, suddenly morose.

"Are you mad?"

He did not respond, and Ludwig fell in to his side, whispering, "I could never love anyone like I love you."

Starting, he looked over, and the look of sincere adoration on Ludwig's face made him forget that Roderich's name had ever been mentioned.

"I'm not...mad."

"Good, I'm having such a good time with you! It's almost like before, when things were fine between us."

"I feel that way too," he said, and smiled.

"I'm happy here, now."

And then, to his surprise, Ludwig was only an inch or so away, and Gilbert felt the heat rush through his veins. It would only be too easy, he thought in the back of his mind, to lean down and steal a kiss, and Ludwig was so intoxicated that there was no way he would ever be able to remember it in the morning, and maybe he would even respond...

"Are you happy too?"

He nodded, heavily, cheeks flushed. It was certainly tempting, and he moved forward, but Ludwig suddenly smiled sloppily over at him, and he fell back, losing his nerve.

No.

That wouldn't be right. Maybe he wasn't a beacon of morality, like Roderich, but even _he_ had to have a line that he would not cross, and this was it. He could not take advantage of someone who trusted him so, not in this state.

Leaning back into the couch, he stared into the fire, clasping his hands in his lap.

"Why don't you go lay down?" he began, suddenly desperate to be free of Ludwig's presence, before he did something he would regret, but Ludwig only shook his head.

"I'm alright," he slurred, and, suddenly affectionate, he threw himself heavily against Gilbert's side.

"You really should get some sleep," he repeated, but Ludwig only rested his head in the curve of his neck, and he was ashamed of himself when his arm moved of its own accord, falling heavily across Ludwig's shoulders.

His resolve was foundering, and it felt so good to hold someone, after so long...

"Ludwig? I..."

He trailed off, shifting uneasily when Ludwig looked up and he was caught under an intense, if not bleary, gaze. Even now, intoxicated and mostly helpless, there was something about Ludwig that intimidated him, and for a moment he lost his voice.

But he was nothing if not determined, and carried on bravely.

"Ludwig, I tell you all the time that I love you, don't I? Well..."

But Ludwig, squirming happily, interrupted, "Of course! I love you, too, big brother."

Weakly, and feeling the first flutter of nervousness in his stomach, he tried to regain control, and said, "No, that's... That's not exactly what I meant... I mean, I think I'm-"

"I know," Ludwig murmured, and with a heavy sigh, he collapsed against Gilbert's chest, on the verge of unconsciousness. "I've always known..."

He blanched.

Could it be possible that Ludwig had seen something in himself that he had not?

"You _have_?" he asked, panicked, and Ludwig smiled. "How?"

"You've taken care of me for so long. You wouldn't have done that if you didn't love me."

"Oh... O-of course."

He did not understand. And why should he? It was probably an inconceivable notion, and besides, Ludwig did not know that they were not really siblings. So how could he ever reciprocate such feelings?

Disheartened, Gilbert could not find the strength to continue, and sat in silence as Ludwig fell asleep, slumped up against his chest. He stayed there the entire night, reluctant to wake him, the glow of the fireplace his only company.

Even though he was not alone, he was lonely.

* * *

The sun was too bright.

His head had never hurt this bad in his life, and, squinting his eyes in the light, Ludwig buried his face in his pillow, groaning. He could have gone back to sleep, perhaps, had his pillow not at that moment decided to breathe, and ask, "Feelin' alright?"

He started upright, and was face to face with a pair of unreadable wine eyes.

"You scared me," he hissed, and fell back as Gilbert began to laugh.

"You look _bad_," Gilbert said, and reached out. Ludwig, feeling strangely subdued after a night of drinking that he could not clearly remember, only sat back and allowed his brother to run a hand through his hair.

"I'm never drinking with you again," he rasped, as Gilbert pulled him into a gentle embrace.

"We'll see."

If this was how you felt the morning after, he could not really justify the giddiness of the night before. Moderation was probably the key, but he would not be distressed if he never laid eyes on brandy again. Resting his head against Gilbert's chest, he sighed deeply.

"What time is it?"

"I dunno," Gilbert replied, haughtily. "I've been so busy being your personal bed cushion that I haven't exactly had time to check the clock."

Moaning irritably, Ludwig pulled himself wearily from the sofa and, as he held his head, Gilbert added, "Go check the mail, eh? I'll start some coffee."

"Sure," Ludwig conceded, and the second he had disappeared outside, Gilbert's confident air dissolved, and he let out a sigh as he trudged into the kitchen, morose and disappointed.

What a night.

Once the alcohol had left his system, he was mortified at himself. Had he actually tried to confess confused, disjointed feelings of what could possibly be love to Ludwig? He had, he remembered it clearly. Burying his face in his hands, he muttered to himself, "Stupid, stupid, stupid..."

Thank God almighty that Ludwig remembered nothing.

He had been on the brink of disaster, he was sure of it. He would have to control himself in the future, for both of their sakes.

Several minutes passed silently, as the smell of coffee filled the room.

"Ludwig?"

What was taking so damn long to get the mail?

"You get lost?"

There was no answer, and he poked his head out.

But Ludwig was inside alright, standing near the door, scanning the mail.

Why didn't he answer?

Taking a step forward, he saw that one item in particular had caught the blond's attention.

"What is it?" he asked, curiously, taking another step.

Ludwig did not respond, and he furrowed his brow, feeling a knot tighten in his chest. It was a letter, and Ludwig was reading it with alarming intensity. He was sure, for a moment, that it was another letter from _him_, perhaps begging Ludwig to return to Austria with him so they could go off on more adventures, maybe even confessing things unspeakable, but...

If that were the case, Ludwig would be happy, wouldn't he, and his face wouldn't be so taught, nor his eyes so concerned.

"What is it?" he asked again, and finally Ludwig looked up at him, smiling weakly. Gilbert did not miss the tremor in his hand and felt his heart race. Something was wrong.

"Roderich always forwards me my mail," Ludwig whispered, humorlessly. "He never even looks to see who it's from. He thinks it's rude..."

"What _is _it?" he repeated, loudly, and this time Ludwig told him.

"It's a letter of conscription."

The world stopped.

Stunned into silence, he could have sworn, for a moment, that he heard drums in the distance. He realized that it was the blood pounding in his ears, and he shuddered. He had not expected it, but he pushed aside his alarm as he felt was expected of him, and then, perhaps callously to Ludwig, threw his head back and began to laugh.

"What? How ridiculous! To think they would even try to drag _me_ into the army! Ha! _Me_! Could you imagine it? How could they ever think I would show up? Could you...imagine?"

He gasped for breath, never even stopping to think that he had hid his trail so well over the past years that it was impossible for the empire to send him a letter. Gilbert Beilschmidt did not exist on paper, but who else could it be for? Surely...

"Gilbert."

Smiling breathlessly, he looked over at Ludwig, and the seriousness on the teen's face made his heart sink, and he suddenly felt sick.

"It's not for you. It's for me."

Gilbert opened his mouth, lost his voice, and Ludwig added, softly, "It took so long to get here... I'm supposed to report next week."

He met Gilbert's eyes, and added, bravely, "It'll be alright."

How could it?

He snatched the letter from Ludwig's hands, and read it.

What he saw there made his blood rise.

"This doesn't...make any sense."

He trailed off, shaking his head in an effort to clear it. Then he looked again, and could not keep his voice from rising as he said, in disbelief, "This _can't_ be right. This is a conscription from the Austro-Hungarian empire... How...?" He looked up at Ludwig, who shifted his weight, guiltily. "How could _they_ conscribe _you_? You're German."

"Roderich... When we went to Africa, he had to give my records to the empire, so that I would be able to stay in the embassy. My school records from Vienna... I had to be registered as an Austrian."

He met Gilbert's eyes, and tried to smile.

"It wasn't anything...personal."

Gilbert fell back, aghast, feeling the betrayal rising in his chest.

This was too much.

After so many years of hearing from Roderich about how horrible a guardian he was, how unfit he was to care for Ludwig, how much _danger_ he was putting him in, it was now turned around. How ironic; it was Roderich, in the end, who had placed Ludwig in the worst danger of all.

But even so...

"How could you let him," he began, lowly, "do that? Why would you let him... You're not an Austrian! You're not like _him_! You're supposed to stay _here_, with me, not be forced into the army of another goddamn country! Didn't he even think that something like this could happen?"

"It's not his fault."

Crumpling the paper and throwing it on the floor, he cried, "Stop defending him! What has he ever done for you? I'm the one that loves you, that _really_ loves you! Why can't you ever listen to me?"

"Please... Gilbert, we've been doing _so_ well," Ludwig pleaded, clasping his hands in front of him. "Please don't do this. I have to go..."

"No! You don't! Just ignore it! Throw it away! What can they do you? Arrest you? They can't, not here in Berlin! Just don't show up-"

"I can't do that," Ludwig cried, desperately. "It's not right! Please, can't you understand?"

He couldn't.

"You _can't_ go!" he roared, as he lost all sense of control that he been trying desperately to keep, and his temper went unchecked. "You can't! I _forbid_ it! I'll _never_ give you permission to go!"

There was a stifling silence, and then Ludwig began to laugh derisively.

"Permission? Who said I needed your _permission_? I'm not a child anymore! Why can't you get that out of your head? Roderich at least treated me like an adult! I can go where I want. I don't have to ask you first."

It was too much.

His pride was hurt, and he retaliated, viciously.

"SO _GO_," he roared, and then, desperate to hurt and without thinking, he added, "What do I care? You're not even my real brother _anyway_! So go and die, and see what I care!"

Ludwig paled before him, and the electric atmosphere of before fell into a deathly silence. His stance became rigid and he fell back, and Gilbert could not stop the feeling of satisfaction that ran within him when he saw the crushed look on Ludwig's face.

"What are you saying?" he whispered, horrified, as his hands began to tremble.

Gilbert, heart full of malice, aimed to wound.

"Didn't you know? Didn't _he _tell you? Haven't you ever wondered?" He tried to laugh nonchalantly, but it only came out as thin and weak. His head hurt.

And Ludwig only shook his head emphatically, like a child, refusing to believe. "You're lying."

"I'm not," he retorted, and stomped his foot. "Can't you see it? We don't look anything alike! Haven't you ever wondered why there aren't any pictures of our parents here? Or should I say _my_ parents! You... I don't even know who you _are_!"

Ludwig fell back, and, chest heaving, Gilbert carried on without thought.

"_Roderich_ found you! On the street, and I just _called_ you brother because I felt sorry for you and you didn't have _anyone_! I _named_ you! I didn't have any brothers, so I thought it would be fun, but you... I wasn't good enough for you! So I'm done pretending! If you want to go, then go! Go and join the army if you want, whoever you are, but don't come crawling back to me again later on, because I'm done with you. You're no one. You have no past. And you have no future, not with me..."

Silence.

It was the most horrible thing he had ever said in his life, and he had never even known that he was capable of _thinking_ it.

But it was over now, and he couldn't take it back.

The damage was done.

Staring dejectedly at the floor, face unreadable, Ludwig breathed, "You lied... You've lied to me my whole life..." He looked up, meeting Gilbert's crimson gaze, and cried, "I thought you were someone I could trust!"

He hadn't meant to take it so far, and already regret was creeping into his voice, as he shook his head and said, "Well, you thought wrong." It was more emotionless than he had meant, and Ludwig was backing away closer and closer to the door.

"I don't understand... I can't..."

"Just go," he groaned, and hung his head. "Just go."

He didn't mean it. He never meant any of the stupid things he said, but Ludwig listened. Like always.

"Goodbye..."

Gilbert couldn't stand it, and tried to take it back.

"_WHY_? Why go? You owe them nothing! _Nothing_! What's the point?"

There was a terrible look of disgust on Ludwig's face as he spat, furiously, "It's my duty, and I'm not a coward. Not like _you_."

Turning his back, he stalked out, slamming the door so hard behind him that the photos on the wall rattled dangerously.

"_Good riddance_," Gilbert screeched from behind, and in a whirlwind of fury he punched the wall, and the door, and everything else he could get his hands on, as silent tears ran down his face. His knuckles cracked; he did not feel it. "I hate you! You worthless son of a bitch! I hate you! I..."

Exhausted and feeling like his heart would burst, he fell to his knees.

"I hate you... God..."

Ludwig was gone. He was alone.

What had he done?

Dragging himself pitifully into the kitchen, he grabbed the nearest bottle, threw himself into a chair, and downed its contents straight.

Ludwig would not forgive him this time.

He would never come home again.

"Goodbye, brother," he whispered to no one, miserably.

And as he rested his head on the table, breathing heavily and praying that he had drank enough to kill himself, Roderich was packing his bags.

* * *

**Next chapter** : Roderich's influence is growing. And just in time...


	10. June 26, 1914

Chapter 9

**June 26th, 1914**

It had been nine years since Roderich had been sent to reside in an embassy (apart from his home Vienna) inside the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Since then, he had gone all over the world; Italy, Spain, England, Switzerland, Germany, Prussia, even the United States.

So why now?

It was so strange that he was to be sent so suddenly within his own country's borders.

And he was not happy about it.

"Damn it all," he griped aloud, as he rummaged through his belongings, damp, freshly showered hair laying flat against his face. "Goddammit." He had just finished packing the last of his shirts when the bedroom door swung open, and he did not look up, knowing it was Erszébet who stood in the frame.

"What's all the fuss?" she asked, and he shook his head.

"The _idiots_ in the goddamn parliament," he snapped, irritably, "are sending me to _Bosnia_."

He half expected her to share his outrage, but she only said, "Oh. That's strange."

Slamming his suitcase shut, he turned to her, barking, "Bosnia! Can you believe it? They have other people who can do their dirty work in the provinces. I'm not in the mood for this, I'm really not. The first time I run into a damn nationalist trying to spy or sabotage something, I'm leaving, job be damned!"

He had more to say, but trailed off, suddenly distracted.

"Where are _you_ going?"

She shifted uneasily as he studied her.

Maybe he hadn't been with her for a while, but he knew her style. Erszébet was still a tomboy, even to this day, but when she was in the house she always wore the appropriate dresses and curled her hair, mostly out of respect for his social standing. He had always thought she was beautiful, particularly when well-dressed, but...

Now, she stood before him, hair pulled up into a messy bun, dressed in a loose shirt (one of _his_ shirts, he realized with chagrin) and work pants, tucked into clunky boots.

These were travel clothes.

"Where are you _going_?" he asked, again, and she sighed.

"Roderich... I'm leaving. I'm going back to Szeged."

"Szeged? You haven't been there since-"

"Since I was a child. I know." But she did not look afraid, and added, sternly, "I'm going home."

"This is your home," he retorted, and turned his back to her, pulling out another suitcase. He did not have time for this. He did not have the patience for her sudden adventures. He never had. "I'm only going to be gone for a few months, so..."

"I won't be here when you get back, Roderich."

"Yes you will," he said, stubbornly, and he could hear the annoyance in her voice as she walked out, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, "Gyűlöllek."

He froze up, shivering as though ice had suddenly been dropped down the back of his neck. He had never thought it had disintegrated so badly...

'I hate you'.

Shaking his head to gather himself, he tried to carry on, despite his trembling hands.

An hour or so later, when he dragged his things out to the car, he did not pass her by.

So then...

Had she really left?

He tried not to think about it, and after a few moments, his mind had wandered, as it always did. If she had gone back to Hungary, then there was little he could do to stop her. She was hard-headed, and independent, and she _never_ listened to him, not like Ludwig had...

His mood worsened, and he thunked his head against the window, the sudden thought of Ludwig dragging him further into depression.

He missed him.

It had been six months, but it felt longer. He hadn't missed Erszébet this much when he had been in Africa, not like this...

It had crossed his mind, several times, that he had felt this way years ago, when he had first courted Erszébet in Württemberg. It was the same incessant longing, but he tried not to give it thought. His only interest, after all, had only ever been to provide a safe, caring home for Ludwig.

Nothing more.

But Ludwig hadn't written him. He had been so sure that he would have received some kind of contact, maybe a call to say hello...

Nothing.

It hurt, to think he had been forgotten so easily.

When the car pulled in front of the Vienna embassy, he trudged up the steps with a briefcase, cursing the world.

None of this was fair.

And when he walked into his office, intent to grab everything he would need for his relocation, he was greeted by an old acquaintance, a stocky, intimidating man dressed in royal blue.

"Roderich! I was waiting for you."

He fell short, and grumbled a half-hearted, "Good day, Archduke."

They stared at each other momentarily, and Roderich was surprised. He had not seen Franz Ferdinand in a month or so, and it was strange that he had come to see him, on his last day in Vienna... A coincidence? He was not so certain. And when Ferdinand smiled amicably, and said, "Drop the formalities, we're all friends here," his suspicion only grew.

"Why are you here?" he asked, less than polite, passing Ferdinand to throw his briefcase on the table.

"I heard you were going to Sarajevo."

"Hmph. So?"

"I'm heading out there in a couple of days. I thought we could rendezvous."

"What? Why?"

"Friends can't see each other every now and then?"

There was a tense silence, and Roderich shook his head in exasperation, throwing a handful of papers onto the desk.

They were something like friends, it was true. It had been Ferdinand, all those years ago, who had paved the way for his entrance into the diplomatic world, having also been a close friend of his parents. And it had been Ferdinand who had seen to it that he became an ambassador, and in return, it had been he who had given advice to Ferdinand in turbulent familial matters.

They had always gotten on, and Roderich felt his defenses drop.

"If you were really a friend," he began, "you could try to get me out of this."

"You've been promoted. You should be proud."

Gathering up the last of his things, he snorted. "Promoted? You mean I'm at large now. Why?"

Ferdinand shrugged a shoulder. "I suppose they want you closer to home. It's been tense in the empire lately. You have a way of settling things."

"Ah... So, then, I assume _you_ had something to do with this?" He shot the taller man a withering glare that was meant to intimidate, but Ferdinand only smiled nonchalantly.

"Maybe."

Shutting his briefcase the best he could, Roderich could only sigh and grumble, "I really don't want to go to Bosnia. I really, really don't." Sitting down at his soon-to-be-former desk, he pulled some papers forward, tying up the last loose ends before he was out of town. "You couldn't have sent me somewhere a little friendlier? I wouldn't have minded if you had suggested Rome or Venice..."

Ferdinand shifted his weight.

"Geneva. London."

"Well..."

"Vaduz. Hell, even Paris! I would have gone to Paris." Agitated, he scribbled viciously on the papers, and hissed to himself, "Goddammit... I'm so tired of all this."

"You've been different lately. You seem stressed. Overworked?"

He spared Ferdinand only the briefest of glances, and tried to carry on.

"I'm _fine_."

"So, then, let's get together in Sarajevo. It's been a while since we've done anything together."

"Somehow," he said, stiffly, "I don't think I'm going to feel like it."

There was a thoughtful pause, and he looked up to see Ferdinand scrutinizing him severely.

"Roderich, you've been so _depressed _lately. What's wrong? You're not in trouble are you? Getting divorced?"

Starting so hard that he dropped his pen, Roderich sat up straight, knocking his coffee mug. "What? No! Of course not! And I haven't been depressed," he said, nervously, and the man before him began to laugh, slapping the desk good-humoredly.

"You can't fool me, Roderich! How many years have we known each other?"

"Many," Roderich conceded, and began to shift anxiously under his superior's knowing look.

"What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing! Nothing is."

Reaching up and rolling a strand of mustache in between his fingers, Ferdinand furrowed his brow. "Ah. So, you're going to make me guess, are you?" He squinted his eyes as he studied Roderich seriously, and finally, he rumbled, "Well, it can't be money problems, I know that for sure. Which must mean that you and your, ah, _Hungarian _girl have been having more problems."

Roderich pursed his lips at the distaste in his voice at the mention of Erszébet. It was no secret that Ferdinand held no love for the Hungarians, and he had always disapproved of his marriage to one. Maybe, he thought remorsefully, he should have listened all those years ago.

"I always said you married too hastily..."

"We're fine," he said, voice clipped, and Ferdinand snorted.

"You're lying! It's so easy to see. But... You and her haven't been that close for years, so that can't be it..."

Rolling his eyes, Roderich rested his chin in his palm, trying to focus on his paperwork. And he was succeeding, when Ferdinand added, slyly, "You know, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were love sick."

He felt his heart skip a beat, and knew his cheeks had flushed.

"Wha... _What_?"

"That's it, isn't it? You've found someone else! Oh, this is fantastic. You have to tell me everything."

"I'm _not_ in love," he stated, firmly, and Ferdinand's glee intensified.

"You're _lying_!" he cried, merrily, obviously pleased at having riled Roderich so. "Why are you lying?"

"Why are _you_ meddling?"

"Tell me the truth."

"Get out," he cried, mortified and ashamed, as his heart raced terribly.

The audacity.

"Well," Ferdinand added, primly ignoring his outburst, "I just hope it's a nice Austrian girl this time."

"I... I..." He could not even find the words necessary to express his embarrassment, and only bowed his head in shame as Ferdinand made for the door.

"We'll talk more about it later. Just get it off your chest, you'll feel better."

"Just get out! And don't bother coming to see me in Sarajevo, because I'll only lock you out." A laugh was his only response, and, feeling that he was not being taken seriously, he added, miserably, "Bosnia... I have a bad feeling about this."

"You worry too much," Ferdinand said, as he held the doorknob in his hand. "I'll see you there. Two days!" He slunk out, and added coyly as he went, "Tell that Austrian girl I said hello!"

Flustered and without thinking, Roderich pushed his glasses up his nose and sputtered back, "German!" Immediately, he clapped his hands over his mouth, horrified, as Ferdinand's deep laughter sounded the hallway.

He would never live this down.

"God... God_dammit_!"

* * *

_Alright_, he admitted to himself, maybe it was prettier here than he had expected.

But he was still not comfortable.

Even now, all but barricaded in his new office inside the Sarajevo embassy, Roderich found himself glancing at the window every few minutes, shifting uneasily as he did so. He had drawn the curtains the minute he entered, and had forbidden his assistant to open them.

Maybe he was paranoid, but he did not like the entire situation.

Bosnia and Herzegovina was a whirling pool of deep nationalism and abhorrence towards the Austro-Hungarian empire, and he knew full well the smallest spark could set off an explosion. Walking from the car to the embassy, wearing the coat of arms of Austria on his breast as the Bosnians passing by stared at him, was one of the most frightening moments of his life. And the other Austrian ambassador he was replacing had seemed only too relieved to be going back to Vienna.

He was worried.

He had not left the embassy for anything these past two days, and he did not plan to unless absolutely necessary.

But this sudden fear of being murdered at any moment lit a fire under him, and he found himself, for the first time, giving in to his desperate need to see Ludwig again. If something happened to him here, he did not want to go without Ludwig knowing how deeply he cared for him.

And so now he sat, at his desk, pushing aside his dignity to write a letter, as he had years ago, but this time the words were very different. He did not want to call it a love letter, even though it mostly was, and he did not want to say that he was _begging_ Ludwig to come back, even though he mostly was.

"Ludwig," he whispered lowly, reading it aloud to himself to double check, "I pray you've been safe in Berlin, and I hope that Gilbert has welcomed you back with open arms. You said that he needed you, and now that you're gone, I can understand this. I need you too, now more than ever. I don't know what I can say to you to make you understand how I feel, and I cannot put it well into words, but please," he stopped momentarily to underline 'please' emphatically, "Please come back. I'm not in Vienna at the moment, so don't try to call, if you were to try, but I have not stopped thinking of the time we spent together. I hope it was as meaningful to you as it was to me, and I..."

He trailed off.

"I..."

That was it, so far.

It was pathetic, almost.

But, God, he was so lonely...

"What else... There has to be something else..."

He carried on scribbling.

And he had nearly finished writing this letter (which he had _almost _every intention of mailing) when a sudden knock on the door made him jump, and he fell back warily when the door burst open.

But it was only Franz Ferdinand, and he was so relieved that he almost didn't notice the horrible look of distress on his face as he stomped forward. Immediately, he snatched the letter and shoved it unceremoniously into a drawer, but surprisingly it went unnoticed to the Archduke, who apparently had other things on his mind.

"You were right," he shouted, making Roderich jump again, and threw himself heavily into a chair.

"W-what happened?"

"_They_," he pointed at the window, "threw a bomb at me! _Me_, and my Sophie! Can you... What are they thinking? A _bomb_! I only arrived today, and already this!"

Roderich could only stare with open mouth, in disbelief.

"If this is any indication of how this country feels about being part of the empire, then what hope is there?" He sighed and bowed his head, muttering, "My Sophie, in such danger... You were right. And I can't put _you_ in such danger. I've already made arrangements with parliament to move you again. I'm sorry, Roderich, for bringing you here. You'll be leaving tomorrow morning."

Vaguely aware of what was being said, Roderich managed to ask, "Is everyone alright?"

"No. It exploded behind us. No one was killed, but there are a few in the hospital. I've already had a severe conversation with the Town Hall. I laid into the Mayor more than I should have..."

Horrified, but relieved that he was already to be sent out, Roderich could only sigh.

"Well... At least everyone is okay. Let's just go back to Austria. It's not safe here."

"We will. But first, we're going to the hospital to see the men there. I just wanted to let you know what was going on." He stood, and Roderich stood with him.

"I don't think you should go. Just go home, before something else happens. They'll be alright in the hospital."

But Ferdinand shook his head stubbornly. "I can't leave without at least seeing them. They were almost killed because of me. I won't be long."

"But..."

"It'll be alright."

His resolve seemed firm, and Roderich knew he couldn't stop him, and it would only be a short stop, but...

He was frightened.

"Be careful, please."

"Of course." He made his way out, adding, at the last moment, "Oh, before I forget... You'll be going to Belgrade next week, so... Take care until then. I'll see you off in Vienna before you leave."

"Alright."

Then he was gone.

Resuming his seat at his desk, Roderich was too nervous to continue his letter, leaving it abandoned in the drawer. His only thoughts now were of a diplomatic nature. Had he said Belgrade? How was that any better than Sarajevo? If anything, Belgrade was even more dangerous, so far within the Kingdom of Serbia, and so close to the Russian Empire, and things had been _so_ turbulent lately, with the revolutionary Young Bosnia doing everything possible to overthrow Austro-Hungarian rule...

He wondered sometimes about Ferdinand's logic.

And he wondered, now, if he would ever see Ludwig again.

The horizon was looking increasingly ominous.

Sick at heart and with no one to talk to, he tried to force himself to finish paperwork, if only to take his mind off of things.

When he thought things could not possibly have gotten worse, an hour or so later there was another knock on the door. He waited a second, and finally said, "Come in."

He wished later on that he had not.

It was his assistant, and the heartbroken look on her face made his blood freeze.

"Sir?" she whispered, and he shook himself from his stupor.

"What is it?"

"The Archduke..."

"What about him?" he asked, and couldn't help the sinking feeling in his stomach.

"He's... He's not coming back."

The thick, strained voice and the frantic footsteps outside the door said it all, and he felt his breath leave him. Finding no more words, he could only turn his head to the side as his assistant, disheartened, turned and walked out, closing the door gently behind her. When he was alone, he buried his face in his hands, fighting back tears of frustration. All of the misfortune of the past years came to a crescendo, and he felt his will to carry on evaporate.

His heart burned.

Erszébet was gone.

Ferdinand was gone.

_Ludwig_ was gone.

He was alone.

* * *

**Next chapter** : Ludwig gets his bearing in the midst of a military camp, and Roderich tries to keep the outside world from crashing down around them. But with warring empires and restless nationals, there's little hope of preventing a war...


	11. July 27, 1914

Chapter 10

**July 27th, 1914**

It wasn't easy, knowing that one day the fate of your country could lie on your shoulders.

And it was even harder being berated and harassed every waking minute of every day, but there was nothing else to be expected from a military training camp. Not all days were bad; there were the less stressful days of medical training, and the philosophical classes were easy (if not painfully thought-provoking).

But some men simply excelled at such at physically demanding tasks.

In this particular Austrian camp, nearly all of these recruited young men were well-educated, artistic types, not suited to the gritty world of the army.

But there was one who seemed to be the exception, a tall, slender blond who was as mysterious as he was impressive. He never seemed to tire, finishing first in every obstacle course, leaving the others behind in the marches, coming out on top during every midnight strategy game, and if he missed a mark, it was few and far between.

He was what the others could only aspire to be.

The sergeants loved him, and never had anything but praise.

He wasn't proud or unkind, they could all see it. But there was definitely something _off_ about him, and why was he so quiet? In the two months he had been here, he had said perhaps two or three sentences outside of training. And what was more...

His name was Ludwig Beilschmidt; all the records said so.

So, why, then, whenever they asked him his name in a simple attempt to engage conversation, did he always respond despondently, 'I have no name'?

'But you're Ludwig, aren't you?'

'I don't know. Call me what you want.'

Strange.

He was _strange_, that much was certain, and it only added to the mystery that, no matter the time of day or the atmosphere of camaraderie they tried to create, he only ever seemed disheartened and forlorn. It was sad, almost, to be around him, and it seemed that he had all but given up on life outside the camp perimeters.

And if any of them had had the courage to ask him outright, Ludwig would have said that yes, actually, he had.

Anything that happened after he was done with his mandatory time in the army was just not in sight. He had no plans, no dreams... Everything he had known was gone.

With only several words, Gilbert had taken it.

If what his 'brother' had said was true (and he was certain it was) then what did he have? He had no name, he had no family, he had no past. No one who really knew who he was.

No home...

He would not return to Berlin when he left. So where was he to go? He had considered seeking out Roderich after, and asking him to take him back to the exact spot where he had found him all those years ago. Maybe seeing that place could somehow bring back memories...

But maybe it wouldn't, and he wasn't sure that he could handle the disappointment if he drew a blank.

He decided that he would try not to think about the future, and live only in the present.

It was the easiest way to carry on, but he could not get rid of his constant depression.

Over the years, he had suspected Gilbert of many things, but never had it crossed his mind that he was hiding such a heavy secret. And Roderich had known, too. Maybe he should have seen it, but...

He had trusted Gilbert, blindly.

He was a fool.

And now, he sat on a military issued cot, cross-legged as he listened to the other men conversing amongst themselves.

Some were writing letters home.

He did not write to anyone. He had nothing to say to Gilbert, and too much to say to Roderich.

Heavy-hearted, he tried to listen to the others, desperate to take his mind from his problems. The sun had long since gone down, and now that they were free of the day's training, they did what they always did before lights out; talk politics.

"Well," one began, "the ultimatum has been issued, so it won't be long before the Serbs give in."

"Please," barked another one, "There's no way. The empire has been wanting to go to war with Serbia for years."

"But that doesn't mean-"

"The Germans are eager, too... There are too many things to be won for it to all be settled with diplomacy."

"But Russia won't take it lightly."

"Russia's overrated."

"Idiot!"

He enjoyed listening to them, though he himself had no real opinions either way. The Archduke of Austria-Hungary was dead. Serbia was blamed. Some wanted war. Some wanted peace. These were the facts; his opinion would change nothing.

And besides, they never tried to engage him in these political debates anymore.

But tonight was an exception, and suddenly one of them had cried out, "Ludwig, what do you think will happen?"

There was a heavy silence, as they all turned to the ever-silent blond. Ludwig watched them tranquilly for a moment, and, just when they had decided he would not begin speaking to them just yet, he opened his mouth.

"Well," he finally said, voice deep and thoughtful as his companions stared at him in surprise (and perhaps fascination), "I don't care what happens. As long as there's no war..."

Without another word, he rolled onto his side and closed his eyes, ignoring the rest of their attempts to get him talking.

He drifted off quickly.

* * *

Sleep was not coming so easily to Roderich.

Tossing this way and that in his empty bed, he was exhausted, physically and mentally, but still he could not sleep.

But he wasn't surprised.

It had been like this the past month. He had tried everything; warm milk, hot baths, alcohol, herbal concoctions. He had even gone so far as to procure potent sleeping pills, but even this only gave him two or three hours of reprieve.

He wasn't sure how much more of this he could take.

Every day had dragged on since that day in Sarajevo, and since then, the empire had worked him to the point of collapse. He hadn't even come back to Vienna; from the minute he left the Sarajevo embassy, it had been only to go straight to Belgrade. He had been jostled and harassed here, by both his own superiors and the Serbs he was supposed to be negotiating with.

He could not force them to accept the terms of the ultimatum that had been issued after the assassination, but, as the Emperor said, he had to pretend that he _could_, because failure to do so would result in war.

But he wasn't stupid.

This ultimatum was designed specifically to antagonize and humiliate Serbia, and even the other ambassadors had joked that the dual empires had found a way to declare war without being at fault. Serbia would reject the terms. His presence here in Belgrade was only a front.

So why should he have to work harder than anyone else?

War was inescapable.

And a war now, in such a delicate environment, would be disastrous. If Austria-Hungary declared war, then the German Empire would leapt into with them, and conscription would run rampant, and Ludwig would be in danger...

But then, some selfish part of him _wanted_ war. He was hurt, still, over the loss of his long-time friend, and the whole Kingdom of Serbia was as good a target for his wrath as any. If war _were_ declared, Serbia would be crushed, and his thirst for retribution would be somewhat satisfied.

Sighing restlessly, he grabbed his pillow and placed it over his face, wearily.

His head was too full.

As he fought with his conscience and his desire for revenge, the sun finally broke over the horizon, and he reluctantly pulled himself from bed. He did not want to start another day.

As he dressed, he glanced briefly at his calendar.

July 28th.

One month to the day that Franz Ferdinand had been taken away.

Disheartened, he headed downstairs, nodding politely to the already busy employees, and locked himself in his office, as he always did.

Every day, after all, was only a long wait for the inevitable.

And yet, he thought humorlessly as he took up his pen, war did not stop paperwork. His assistant stopped by a moment later with desperately needed coffee, which he accepted gratefully.

He stopped writing only to rub at his eyes, feeling his mind wander as his hands became heavy with sleep.

He was so tired...

And his mood wasn't helped by the fact that his letter, into which he had poured so much emotion, would never be received. In the fallout in Sarajevo, he had left it in the drawer of the desk, and he did not have the will to write another one. Ludwig was oblivious, and even if he had tried to call him in Vienna, he could not know about it. No one lived there right now, after all.

He was to be lonely forever, then.

Agitated, he tried to pull himself from his dismal reverie, and turned back to his paperwork.

And again, his assistant came inside, but this time she seemed frantic.

"Sir, we have to leave."

"What are you talking about? Get out," he muttered, twirling the pen in his hands irritably as he refused to raise his eyes and acknowledge his assistant. He had no time for such distractions, such nonsense... There were so many things to do, and any pause now would ruin him for the rest of the day.

"Sir... _Please_! It's important!"

What part of this did she not understand?

"Get out. I have things to attend to."

He was losing patience, and quickly.

"Sir!"

By God.

"_OUT_," he shouted, and this time he threw himself from his chair, slamming his pen onto the desk furiously. "Get out! Out!" Maybe it was uncalled for, but he was frustrated, and everything felt so wrong here. His assistants had become the innocent targets of his wrath lately, but he was _so_ exhausted, and he missed Ferdinand, and Ludwig was _still _gone...

But she refused to budge, and he fell back down heavily, meeting her gaze reluctantly.

"_What_?"

"Sir, the Emperor has sent a letter..."

"Let me see," he demanded, and as soon as the paper had fallen into his hands, he heard the helpless whisper.

"The Embassy is shut down. We're ordered to leave the country immediately."

Feeling his breathe leave him, his eyes scanned the paper, and he knew.

_Negotiations fell through._

_Serbs rejected terms._

_Vacate country immediately._

"Sir... Are we going?"

Tucking the paper in his breast pocket, he yanked his briefcase off the floor and slammed it on the desk, shoving folders and loose papers inside haphazardly, as quickly as possible, a cold sweat breaking over his brow. He knew, of course, that this was coming, but now that it was here, he couldn't help but panic.

His sudden disorganization only frightened the woman before him, and she added, desperately, "Sir, what does this mean?"

Slamming his now bulging briefcase shut, he said, as he raced to the door, "The empire is going to declare war."

* * *

It would only take a minute.

Staring morosely at the phone, head held up in one palm, Roderich was struggling with his pride.

He had to call Erszébet. He had to warn her.

It had taken his assistant three days of hard work to track her down, and now that he had the means to contact her, he was hesitating. How could he speak to her now, after she had walked out on him so abruptly? She wasn't safe where she was, not now, but...

Moaning irritably, he buried his face in his palm, grumbling, "This is all your fault..."

Of course it was her fault.

If she hadn't left, she would still be here in Vienna, tucked safely away. But instead, she had had to prove a _point_, like a child...

But, should she pay for her stubbornness with her life?

"Goddammit," he whispered, and took the brass handle in his hand. It rang, for a moment, as he tapped his foot impatiently.

"Come on..."

Finally, there was a soft, gentle, "Hello?" and he was startled. He hadn't heard her voice in a while, and certainly not like this. Was this how she sounded away from his presence? She sounded calm; happy.

"E-Erszébet?"

"Who is this?"

"It's me," he began, weakly. "Roderich."

"Roderich! I..." She trailed off, clearly lost for words, and then said, strangely, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

They fell into silence, and he could feel his throat clenching up. Why was it so hard for him to talk to her?

"You don't sound fine," she finally murmured, and sighed. "Listen, I'm sorry about everything that's happened... If I had known, I never would have left, and, well... I'm sorry. I know how close you two were. I called you, you know, right after, but I couldn't get a hold of you."

"I've been here and there..."

"Roderich... Why did you call? You sound so defeated..."

He steadied himself, pushed down his self-respect, and said, lowly, "You have to come back."

"What? What did you say?"

"You have to come back," he repeated, louder, and she fell deathly silent.

"I can't do that."

Mouth dry and head pounding, he could only whisper, urgently, "Please, this is no time to be proud. You need to come back. It's not safe in Szeged anymore."

"I'll be _fine_."

He shook his head, disappointed. He had hoped that this would go off without a hitch, but she was so stubborn. He would not beg. How could he?

"You don't understand the situation."

"No, Roderich, it's you who doesn't understand. You never have..."

Why was it that whenever they spoke, one of them wound up getting hurt?

He wanted nothing more than to hang up, and let her choose when she was ready to acknowledge her precarious position, but...

He had to try, because Szeged was so close to the Serbian border, and if they marched onto Hungary, Szeged was the first frontier, and she would be in danger.

"Why are you doing this, Roderich?" she asked, suddenly, sadly.

"Because... I don't want anything to happen to you..."

It was true. Maybe she annoyed him, but he would never wish harm on her, and what would Ludwig think if he found out he had left his wife in harm's way?

"Roderich," she whispered, and he could hear the faintest trace of hope in her voice, "If you can tell me right now that you love me, I'll come back."

"I..."

They had been together ten years. They had been married eight. And in all those years, he could have counted on one hand all of the times he had said those three words. It was hard for him, to say such things. He was not overly emotional, and it was a blow to his pride.

Feeling himself relenting, he hesitated, and realized he was ignoring his own advice about not being proud. Erszébet could see it too, and even over the phone, he could hear the strain in her voice.

"Goodbye, Roderich."

There was a click, and nothing more.

He set the phone down, and, shaking his head, he muttered, "Goodbye."

This task complete (however the outcome), he stood up, and prepared himself for war.

* * *

**Next chapter** : The war is gaining speed as Russia invades East Prussia. Rumors spread of a march on Berlin, but Gilbert doesn't have the will to flee, not when Ludwig could send a letter any day...


	12. August 21, 1914

Chapter 11

**August 21st, 1914**

The sun was shining down brightly above a light spattering of clouds, as a gentle zephyr blew through the green trees. It wasn't too hot, nor too humid.

A perfect summer day, seemingly.

But the smoke that was looming over the horizon should have been a sign that all was not well.

Even though every one of the past few month's unfortunate events had all but spelled out an impending disaster, Gilbert had never considered that it would go so far as this. Maybe harsher foreign policies. Maybe annexation.

But not a war.

It didn't seem plausible. But then, he had never card much for politics, so what did he know? He didn't care what happened to the great empires, even his own. Not really. He had only one dilemma that was keeping him up at nights.

Austria-Hungary had declared war.

And Ludwig was in the Austrian half of the army, swept up in it all.

Where was he now? Was he safe? Or was he in battle, even now, as Gilbert was sitting alone at the kitchen table? He would have written him, but how could he? He didn't know where, and if he had, what could he say? What could he possibly say?

'Sorry, that I lied to you.'

'Sorry, that I don't know who you are.'

'_Sorry for ruining your life.'_

He had spent so many years protecting Ludwig from the worst parts of life... And for what? To throw it all away in a fit of anger, saying the worst things possible?

He laid his head on the table, distraught.

Maybe Ludwig would be better off dying heroically in a far away land, serving a greater purpose than Gilbert had had planned for him...

Or maybe that was just him being selfish, like always.

But maybe Ludwig already _had _died.

Everything was so hectic.

It hadn't even been a month since it all started, and already his own borders had been breached. He closed the curtains on the east side of the house, reluctant to see the smoke rising over the distance. He hadn't gone outside since the first battle. Seeing those grey plumes reminded him that Ludwig was always in danger.

And so was he.

The Russians were coming, slowly but surely. The German army had already fallen back once, and would probably fall back again.

Prussia was not immune to defeat.

Why wouldn't Ludwig write him, and tell him what was happening?

It would only take a minute, to write a letter...

A sudden knock on the door lifted him from his heavy thoughts, and when he stood, he already had a feeling as to what it was about.

But it was a rare sound, nonetheless.

His neighbors didn't really know him. They had never spoken to him, in all the time he had been here. He was exceedingly private, the whole neighborhood knew it (after he had dismissed their attempts to welcome him into their community so many years ago) and gave him his space. He wouldn't have it any other way.

So why _now_ were they knocking at his door?

Trudging half-heartedly from his kitchen, he grabbed the handle and pulled the door open halfway. A young woman stood on the porch, clasping her hands nervously in front of her.

"What is it?" he asked, calmly, staring her down from the doorframe.

"I... Um, well..." She was fidgeting terribly, caught under his crimson gaze. He wasn't trying to be intimidating, but he wasn't going to go out of his way to be friendly, either.

"What?"

"It's just..." She finally found her courage (and her voice) and said, gently, "Everyone is leaving. You've heard, haven't you? The Russians are winning. They say that they're coming for Berlin, next, after they take Königsberg. It's best to get out now, before something happens..."

He stared at her intensely, and drawled, "Why?"

She gaped up at him. "Because... Well..." Her hands fell to her side in defeat, as she struggled to understand her clearly unsound neighbor. "Aren't you frightened?"

"Should I be?"

"It's dangerous, to stay..."

"I can't go," he replied, so serenely that it was almost unnerving, as if, for him, there was no future to risk. "I don't have anywhere else."

"But..."

"You should go. I'm staying."

Her face fell into helplessness, and she shook her head, whispering sadly, "Won't you even make a try for it?"

"What's the point?" he muttered, apathetically, and shut the door.

Returning to the table he had abandoned, he sat back down, his mood unchanged.

He would not flee.

Ludwig could be writing a letter right _now_, and if he left, how would he know?

He wouldn't flee.

He couldn't.

And as the community around him packed up their things and left, he stayed put, his only act of every day being to check the mail, Russians or no.

He would accept his fate, either way.

But the Russians never came.

The German army, brought together by a General who came out of retirement just to save his people, pushed the Russians back. They didn't threaten Prussia again.

It almost didn't matter; the day all the neighbors came back was the same as any other day.

Dismal.

Lonely.

September passed uneventfully. He checked the papers for Austrian campaigns. He looked through the sections that honored deceased soldiers.

He never found Ludwig's name.

That, at least, was hopeful, and gave him the strength to endure the equally silent October.

Ludwig still had not written.

But he was patient. He spent the nights outside, watching the stars. His thoughts in those times were strange.

October ended, and November began.

Nothing.

His hope turned to despair, and he fell into depression. He started wandering the streets again, finding himself low on money.

It was in that time that someone had noticed he seemed stressed, and offered him a small vial of clear liquid that was supposed to be like morphine, only stronger. It was called diacetylmorphine, but its other name still ruled on the street : Heroin. He took it, and tried it.

For the first time, the day passed without guilt. He felt nothing but lazy contentment.

It was addicting. Before long, he sought another vial. And then another.

And why not?

Ludwig couldn't reprimand him.

Not anymore.

November gave way to December, and he lit the fireplace every night, watching the snow fall from the window since the stars could no longer be seen. He prepared himself for the holidays, buying presents for himself and someone else, wrapping them even though he had no attention of ever opening them. He decorated the Christmas tree, dutifully, loading it down with so many baubles that it was in danger of collapse. He hung a wreath on the door, and strung garland on the porch.

The house was warm and inviting. The whole neighborhood was alight with happiness. Everyone was hopeful for the new year, and the Central powers were doing so well in the war. The empire was optimistic.

He hated it.

He was spiraling.

Christmas Eve was a blur, though he vaguely remembered holding a conversation with the fireplace (in his mind, it was only a Ludwig who was not really there), and he spent all of Christmas day slumped on the couch, passed out.

He did not awake until nightfall.

Moaning and waking up to the throbbing in his head, and heart, he pulled himself to his feet, and gathered himself. He was surprised he had made it this far by himself. But Christmas shouldn't be so depressing.

He reached into the drawer in the end-table, and pulled out a vial, desperate for a pickup. As he pulled the top off, he wondered what Ludwig would have said, if he could have known.

He would shake his head, and look so disappointed...

But, Gilbert remembered, bitterly, this was all Ludwig's fault, after all. If he could just have listened... He _never _listened.

And now look what had happened.

He brought the vial to his lips, and stopped short.

It was empty.

"Shit," he muttered, and looked around. His chest hurt, as sudden anxiety ran through his veins. It seemed that whenever he was sober, all he felt now was a burning longing that was too much to bear. He wanted Ludwig. He wanted his former life. He wanted everything.

He had nothing.

He was alone, and the Christmas lights he had put up were too damn bright.

Too happy.

Filled with a sudden rage, he yanked down every decoration that he had put up, unable to stand even looking at it. He threw the ornaments on the floor, shattering them. The tree fell with a powerful shove, and the garland met its end in the fireplace.

"Fuck it! Just fuck it!"

The wreath on the door was next to face his wrath, and he shredded it with his bare hands.

Why had he even bothered with any of this?

What was the point?

"Goddammit," he cried, miserably, as the last of the Christmas items, the presents, lay at his feet.

He reached down, and grabbed one, holding it above his head as he aimed for the fireplace. But the tag caught his eye, and he couldn't help but read it, bringing the abused box down to his chest.

'To my little brother.'

He froze, and the present fell from his numb fingers with a dull thud.

It was too much.

Grabbing his coat, he bolted for the door, desperate to flee this house of memories. He needed to get onto the streets. He needed to disappear into the dark snow.

He needed more drugs.

He didn't want to feel so alone.

* * *

Life wasn't fair.

And it seemed that it was even less fair to an honest, hard-working Italian immigrant, who was only trying to make a better life for himself.

There was no money, and, no matter how hard he tried, no customers.

He was running out of options, and, with a heavy heart, Roma was closing his restaurant for the night, almost afraid to think of how tomorrow would go. If this kept up, he would be forced to vacate and return to Italy.

Stepping out into the freezing night air, he looked around, locking the door behind him as he went. The snow was falling heavily, and the streets seemed empty. So he was startled when sudden, light footsteps sounded from his left. He turned, hand still gripping the door handle, and came face to face with a haggard man that looked strangely familiar.

He was huddled inside of a coat that was almost too big, and looked horrible; the circles under his eyes were clearly visible, even in the dark shadows of night. The streetlights were not bright, but it was enough to make out his features. A sharp nose rested beneath dull, listless crimson eyes, and silvery hair glowed in the night.

It hit him, suddenly, and he breathed, "Gilbert? Is that you?"

For a second, the man only stared at him, silently, and he felt a trickle of fear run down his back. Maybe he was mistaken, and the streets could be so dangerous in this huge city.

But then the man's head dropped, wearily, and he murmured, "Yeah. Didn't think you'd remember me..."

"For a minute," Roma replied, nervously, "I didn't." He hadn't seen Gilbert for two years, maybe more. What had once been an extremely valued customer had vanished into thin air. He had assumed the worst, after the little Ludovico had vanished, and Lovino has said that Gilbert had become dangerously depressed.

He had thought the pale-haired Prussian dead.

But here he was, and he caught Roma's eye, saying, "I'm surprised you're still here."

"Me too," he said, thoughtfully, and smiled hesitantly. "I feel like I should not be... Say, why don't we go in for a while? It's cold out." He unlocked the door and held it open, ushering Gilbert inside. "It's been a long time since I've had company."

He had been lonely for a while, it was true, but more than that he could not help but feel pity. Gilbert seemed a mere ghost of his former self; even his footsteps made only the softest of sounds.

He brought out a few candles, placing them on the nearest table. "Sit," he commanded, and Gilbert did, however slowly.

"Do you want some wine?"

"Sure."

He retreated into the back, and couldn't help but smile.

He wasn't alone anymore, however strange the company.

Maybe there _was_ some fairness in the cosmos...

But, as he poured the wine into glasses and listened to Gilbert speak, he realized that, just maybe, he had not been so unfortunate in the past years,

"So... He hates you, then?"

Gilbert cradled his glass in his hands, and sighed, "I'd hate me, if I were him."

Gently, Roma whispered, "Sometimes... It's the ones who hate you that care the most for you."

It was hardly encouraging, but Gilbert looked at him nonetheless.

"I just wish that I could have kept my mouth shut. He's still be out there, but... Now, I don't know where he is, if he's even still alive..."

Roma, seated in front of him, shook his head and sighed, his face and posture grim. "I understand. My Lovi joined the army too... I've written to him, you know. I ask him how is brother is, how things are going, if he's happy. And he only wrote me back once. Do you know what he said to me?"

Gilbert did not respond, too disheartened to ask, and Roma laughed, thinly.

"He told me not to write him again! He said he didn't want anyone to ask him who I was! He's ashamed of me, you see... My own grandchild can't stand me." He clasped his hands together on the table in front of him, straightening up as though trying to retain some semblance of dignity. "So I won't write. I tried to take care of him, you know. When my son died, all those years ago, and his mother and the little one were lost near Taranto, I found Lovino. I brought him here. But he always hated it. And once Feliciano made contact and moved back to Italy... And then the war started."

There was nothing Gilbert could say; why even try? But Roma didn't seem to mind his silence, and finished, sadly, "Maybe... I just couldn't make life here exciting enough, I guess. He didn't want what I wanted. He had bigger dreams. He wanted something _grand_. He just... He needed _so _much, you know? I'm just an old man. I couldn't give it to him." He met Gilbert's eyes and tried to smile. "Is that what happened to your Ludovico?"

Scoffing, Gilbert fell back into his chair. "Ludwig? No. Ludwig never wanted much. Ludwig never wanted _anything_. And I still drove him away."

They fell into a heavy, thoughtful silence, and finally Gilbert added, in resignation, "Maybe we weren't meant to be guardians."

It was a sad thought, to know that you dedicated your entire life to taking care of someone who only resented you.

"Well," Roma murmured, "at least we can say that we did everything we could..."

Staring down at the table quietly, Gilbert shook his head. "No," he whispered, finally, and his chair scraped against the tile as he pulled himself to his feet. "_I_ didn't. I don't think I ever really tried."

Pulling his coat over his shoulders, he turned and walked out, leaving Roma to sit alone under the candlelight, watching the dark snow drift outside.

No.

Life wasn't fair, after all.

* * *

**Next chapter :** Ludwig finally writes a letter to Gilbert. And what it says will force Gilbert to choose: his pride, or his brother?


	13. June 19, 1915

Chapter 12

**June 19th, 1915**

Everything was still.

High up on a mountainous path above a well-hidden cliff face, the Austro-Hungarian troops always liked to sit down and watch the sunset. Tucked away in this Italian forest, in a land that was not their own, they had little else to do to raise their spirits, and it hadn't taken long before they had discovered there was a small rock outcrop that faced out to the south, and they could see _everything_.

Far off to the left was a tiny, ancient village, quiet and calm, and off to the right rushed the mighty Soča river. It was hidden from view behind the colorful oak trees, but they could hear it running freely.

And when the sun fell down just above the tree line, everything caught fire in the light. The orange leaves glowed. The exposed rock faces shined. The river glinted and sent up shimmering light, visible on the sides of the mountain.

It was beautiful.

Sitting below the others, hands holding up his head, Ludwig watched, silently, enjoying this moment of relaxation with his comrades.

They had only been here a week, but it was already somewhere he hoped to be for a long time. It was peaceful here, almost surreal in its beauty. It was easier to take his mind off of his problems here. And they had been joined, for the first time, by their Hungarian counterparts. They were edgier and rougher than the Austrians, more eager to see the frontlines. They knew what they were doing, that much was certain. They were rowdy.

But even they couldn't help but stop and stare at the scenery, and one of them settled in next to Ludwig, pointing to the painted sky and saying, awkwardly, "A nap szép, nem?"

Ludwig only looked over at him without comprehension, and he waved his arms empathically, smiling, and cried, "Szép, szép, szép!" He nodded, as if satisfied, and Ludwig smiled.

"Yeah," he agreed, even though he didn't understand, not really, but the expression of contentment was definitely conveyed.

And that was enough. Words weren't really needed.

But as he looked over the colorful, fall leaves, he couldn't help but feel the unease that was creeping up. He wasn't the only one, and the Hungarian next to him shifted.

Every day it was the same.

First the sunset, then the calm, and then...

They could hear it in the distance, as the day began to settle. The birds stopped chirping and the river calmed, and another sound filled the air; but it was much more ominous.

Marching.

It was the Italians, and they were coming to reclaim their mountain.

Another few days, and war would be on their doorstep.

His heart was beating as loudly as the march.

"Menjünk," the Hungarian beside him finally muttered, and pulled himself to his feet. Turning on his heel, he walked off towards the barracks, and Ludwig, desperate to be free of the footsteps of calamity, followed behind.

The sweet, tranquil forest was now only the calm before the storm.

As the night fell, he and the Hungarian parted ways, and he returned to his own barrack. Most of the Austrians were already there, holding half-hearted conversations.

There was an atmosphere of despair as they considered the approaching Italians. They did not seem hopeful.

He couldn't help but share this sentiment, and knew what he had to do.

The others paid him no mind, at first, as he pulled out a pen and a blank sheet of paper from a drawer.

But he had been so silent and mysterious these past months that even the smallest things piqued their curiosity.

And, even now, as they huddled in their cots, afraid of the impending battle, they could not help but notice the faint scratching of a pen, and saw that Ludwig, for the first time, was writing a letter. They leaned in, and one of the braver ones asked, hesitantly, "Ludwig?"

"Hn?"

"Who...are you...writing to?"

His pen fell still, and he looked up at them, and they could see the struggle within him as he said, hesitantly, "My...brother."

"Oh."

It was a simple enough answer, but something seemed strange and out of place, even if they couldn't quite put their fingers on it. But, no matter. It wasn't any of their business, anyway, and even if they had tried to further the conversation Ludwig would not have allowed them to do so.

He turned his attention back to the paper, and the soldier gathered his courage once more.

"Ludwig?"

He was almost frightened to bother the intimidating blond, again, but he just had to know. But it was alright; Ludwig only looked over at him, with the most tranquil of expressions, and said, "Yes?"

"Are you only writing home...because you think you'll die?"

"Yes."

"Are you scared?"

The ice-blue eyes weren't so calm this time, full of anxiety and maybe a strange longing, and he only nodded, once, and turned his head, gripping his pen in his hand so tightly that it was in danger of breaking. After a moment's hesitation, he resumed his writing.

He would not speak again for the rest of the night.

* * *

The needle hurt too much.

Winter had come and gone, without news, and Gilbert tried to be positive as the spring rolled in. The sweet air and blooming flowers were only mildly interesting, and, when the house was just too lonely, he found himself all but living inside of Roma's little shack of a restaurant.

It was alright.

He wasn't alone, at least.

But as spring melted into summer, the news wasn't as good. The Austrian army was going into even heavier battles, and, closer to home, Roma was giving up. He couldn't keep up with things, and Gilbert didn't have the money on hand to help him out. When Roma was closing up the shop, for good, Gilbert had bowed his head and fought off the urge to cry.

But Roma had predicted this distress, and slipped a folded piece of paper gently into his palm.

'This is our address, in Italy,' he had said. 'If you don't have anywhere to go...you can come here. We would never turn you away. You or your Ludovico.'

It was comforting, for a while.

But now he was alone again.

He couldn't take it, and became more dependant on the sense of calm and well-being (however fake) that the street drugs brought him. It was taking every dime that he made. And it wore off _so_ fast... He sought a way to make it last longer, and that was when he had first heard of 'mainlining'. It was every bit as uncomfortable as it sounded, and the first time a dealer had put the syringe in his hand, he had shuddered. And using it was worse.

Tying a tourniquet around his arm with his mouth, he had flicked the vein into existence, and, with squinted eyes, had thrust the syringe in. Maybe he hadn't done it right, because it had hurt like hell. The bruise that lingered after was unsightly as well, as was the needle hole that seemed to refuse to heal.

But, as he had discovered, he _was _doing it right. They said the discomfort would go away, after a while.

And the high lasted longer, but the needle just hurt too damn much.

He couldn't take the pain, but then, he had always avoided even the mildest of pain like the plague. He had never been brave enough, and he threw the syringe into the trash, the mere sight of it enough to stir up nausea. He stayed to the tried and true method of oral ingestion.

He was killing himself.

Deep down, he could feel himself slowly giving up. It went a little further every day, his depression, and he began to dream about his own death.

But he wouldn't let himself go, not until he knew about Ludwig.

If he had to wait forever, then he would. As long as he could.

As it turned out, forever was only one more week.

As he went out to check the sure-to-be empty mailbox, as he always did, he was startled to find something inside. And when the saw the name on the top, his heart soared.

It was from Ludwig.

Racing inside as fast as he could, he threw himself on the sofa, clutching the letter to his chest. He wanted to hold it, if only a moment, before he read it. It was more than he could have hoped for.

Maybe his luck was turning around.

With shaking hands, he opened the envelope as gently as possible, reluctant to tear it in any way. Pulling the meticulously folded letter open, he sat down, and read.

His heart trembled.

_Gilbert,_

_I almost don't know what to say to you. I'm not sure if you will even receive this letter. I heard about the Russians coming so close to Berlin, and it's understandable if you left town. But by chance you are still there, I thought I would let you know what was happening._

_I finished my combat training in November, and already by December I was thrown into the first battles. We went to Limanowa, and fought against the Russians. But mercifully their lines were weak, and we quickly won. I am proud of our strength, even if it is not my home country. But it was frightening, and... Being there, I admit that I thought about you frequently_

_But I didn't write to you until now. I was still so angry at you. I was afraid I would let my emotions get the better of me. And I won't lie that, even now, I haven't completely forgiven you. However, I won't ever forget the years you cared for me, like you really were my brother. And maybe some part of you really did care for me, at least that's what I have to tell myself, for the sake of my sanity._

_Earlier this month, we were sent to the banks of the Soča river. You've heard of it, maybe. The Italians call it the Isonzo. We are on the Italian side, so that name seems more relevant. We've been here for only a week, and now our position is under fire._

_Gilbert. _

_I am writing to you as the Italians advance. Their strength is double ours. The commanders say there is nothing to fear, that even though we are outnumbered we are superior. The attitude in the barracks is different. Many feel that disaster in on the horizon, and that many of us will not come back. As the sun goes down, it almost seems as though we can feel ghosts around us._

_I don't know what to think. But if worse comes to worst, I will not prolong the inevitable. Death is almost welcome at this point in time. I just can't..._

_After all of this, I've come to realize how delicate life can be. Sometimes it works out for you, and sometimes it doesn't. I thought everything was supposed to go down one path, but I was wrong. Everything has changed for me. I feel lost... I don't even want to leave my bed in the morning._

_That is why I don't plan on returning from this battle. You deserve to know. I hope that your years of sacrifice were not in vain. I tried to be the best person that I could. And even though I will always disapprove of the methods by which you sought to provide for me, I understand why you did it. I do. And I miss the days past between us, when I loved you and could call you brother. I hope that you will remember me, at least for a while._

_Goodbye, brother. I hope you can find peace somehow, and live a long, happy life. I hope you won't blame yourself. I hope you won't be angry at me. I never meant for any of this to happen. If I could go back and change things, please know that I would._

_You know, in Africa, the locals told us that when someone dies, they can come back to a happier life, if they were good in the first. I like to try and believe that. If fate is kind, perhaps we will meet again, in some other place._

_Ludwig_

_P.S. - After it's all done and over with... Please don't tell Roderich of what I did. It will break his heart._

He sat the letter down on the table, almost too numb to react. This was not what he had expected. After a minute of stillness, he couldn't help but toss his head back and laugh, breathlessly.

So...

Was this really it, then? Was this the last contact he would ever have with the only person who had ever really cared for him?

A goodbye letter...

A final farewell.

He shook his head in an attempt to clear it, as the nausea rose in his chest. And then he read the last line, again.

And again.

And again.

_Please don't tell Roderich._

Please don't tell _Roderich_.

"That son of a bitch," he moaned to himself, and buried his face in his arms, resting hopelessly on top of Ludwig's valediction. "How could you? How could you do this to me? I have to... I _have_ to tell him! I don't have a choice! I _have _to, because he loves you. And you...you _want _him to know, even if you say you don't. And I have to because...if I don't, he'll never know, and then you'll... You'll hate me forever." He laughed once, and sobbed, "You'll even hate me in that next life..."

He _had _to tell Roderich.

But, God, the thought of talking to that self-absorbed bastard again, and having such bad news...

Roderich would blame him, and would probably use his influence to track him down and find a reason to throw him in jail for the rest of his life, which is where, he thought humorlessly, he probably belonged.

Murder.

He had committed murder, hadn't he?

That was reason enough.

He was taking it more calmly than he had ever thought he would, but he was too numb to be hysterical... Maybe he should just drink an entire bottle of heroin right now, and once he went to sleep he would never wake up, and he wouldn't have to explain anything to _him_.

And he would be with Ludwig again.

It sounded like a good enough idea, and he had waited as long as he had told himself he would; until the end. The end was now.

And as he pulled himself to his feet and staggered up the stairs, into his bedroom, one random thought kept running through his head, over and over again.

_Roderich's influence..._

He reached out, plunging his hands into his dresser.

_Roderich had so much influence..._

He found a full vial, and ripped the top off with unsteady hands.

_Roderich could get away with anything he wanted..._

Falling onto his bed, he smoothed his hair with one hand, trying to preserve some sense of vanity, even in these final minutes, and put the bottle to his lips.

_Roderich could create something out of nothing..._

He threw his head back, and the cool liquid slid down his throat easily. He drank it all.

_Roderich could manipulate those around him..._

Breathing steadily as his body and mind were overcome with a dreadful peace, he lay down and closed his eyes. He lay down to die.

It was over.

_And Roderich could make _anything_ happen... _

_Anything._

As he felt himself drifting into sleep, Ludwig's smiling face from when he had been a loving little brother filling his head, a sudden idea popped into his mind with such force that he jolted upright, throwing himself from his bed unsteadily.

"That son of a bitch," he screeched, but this time in joy. "That bastard! That! That awesome bastard!"

Of course. Why hadn't he thought of it right away? Roderich _did _have influence, and just because Ludwig had said he was planning on letting himself die, didn't mean he had done it already, and if Roderich could just track him down, and maybe...

He could get him out of there.

He could get Ludwig back to safety.

It was worth trying, wasn't it?

He took one step forward, and fell to one knee, his head spinning. "Oh... Oh, shit," he moaned to himself, and bowed his head wearily. He had forgotten, so soon...

He was dying.

Sinking back against the wall, without strength, he felt his breaths becoming shorter and lighter. He had been too thoughtless, and he would never see Ludwig again. It was just so easy to give up...

But...condemning himself was easy. Condemning Ludwig along with him was harder.

"I won't let you die," he said, fighting off the urge to sleep, and pulled himself to his feet. Staggering into the bathroom, he fell before the toilet, and put his finger down the back of his throat, forcing himself to vomit. He could still get out of this, and thank God he had stopped using the needle...

It wasn't too late.

Heaving and breathless, he fumbled down the stairs as carefully as he could, and grappled for the phone, throwing himself down in a chair as he lifted the brass piece to his ear.

He still had Roderich's letters from all those years ago, and that number had been burned into his mind, back when he was still so angry. He would never forget it.

The line began to ring, and he steadied himself as his head spun. For a horrible moment, he thought there wasn't going to be an answer, and then, mercifully, there was a click.

"Hello?" came the drawled, bored voice on the other line, and for a second, he froze up.

What would he say?

"Hello?"

He was choking on his pride. It hurt, to beg Roderich for help. He had never begged _anyone _in his life, and no one but Ludwig had seen a vulnerable side to him.

"Who is this? ...hel_lo_?"

Roderich was getting irritated, he could tell, and right when he knew he was about to hang up the phone, he successfully pushed aside his ego, for Ludwig, and moaned, "Roderich?"

There was a second of silence, and then Roderich's voice came back, and Gilbert did not miss the tentative hope and elation as he said, eagerly, "Ludwig?"

It stung, almost, to hear the sudden affection in Roderich's normally emotionless voice.

Did he care for Ludwig so?

So, then, he really _was _competition.

"Ludwig? Is that you? Oh, please... Is it?"

Shaking his head, Gilbert scoffed at himself. Competition for what? Ludwig did not care for him. What was there to fight for?

And, for a second, with _that _thought in his head, he almost set the phone down, a horrible rise of selfishness in his chest.

If _he _couldn't have Ludwig...

All he had to do was hang up, and Ludwig's fate was sealed. His palms began to sweat, as his heart raced. It would only be too easy, to just let him go...and who would know? No one. Ludwig would die, alone in Italy, and he would die alone in Berlin.

And Roderich couldn't have him.

The phone began to lower, and he was a mere inch away from ending it all when the sun came out from behind the clouds, filling the room with light. In his lethargic mind, he could swear that the glinting, golden sunlight was just the reflection from Ludwig's platinum hair.

'_I love you, too, big brother.'_

He couldn't...

He just couldn't...

"...Ludwig?"

"No," he finally said, lowly, "No. It's me. It's...Gilbert."

Roderich's tone changed immediately, spiteful and venomous. "I never thought I'd live to see the day," he began, and Gilbert felt his head begin to pound in agony.

Goddamn jerk.

"I...need help."

"_Ha_! That's a good one, Gilbert. What is it? If you're calling me from jail, this conversation is over. I'm not coming to Berlin to bail you out."

"I..." It was so hard to say. "I..."

"What do you want, really?"

"I... Goddamn, I _hate _asking _you _for help," he groaned, suddenly.

"Then _don't_," Roderich spat back, and Gilbert could hear the scuffle that told he was about to be hung up on.

"Wait!" he cried, desperately, "Oh, God, wait! I need you..."

There a heavy silence on the line, and finally, Roderich said, "What _is _it, Gilbert? What's happened now?"

"It's Ludwig..."

"What's happened?" came the repeated question, and even through the phone he could hear the anxiety in Roderich's voice, and was glad, even a little, that Roderich cared for Ludwig so much.

"He's... He's in _Italy_, Roderich! He was conscribed by Austria, _because of you_, and I... I _told _him not to go, I _told_ him!"

A horrible silence, and then Roderich exploded like a bomb.

"Why in God's name didn't you tell me this earlier?" he shrieked, fury incarnate. "I could have gotten him out of there before he even left the country! Christ! Why didn't you _call me _earlier? It's been a year since the war started! A year! You mean he's been out there for a _whole goddamn year_, fighting for _my_ empire, and _I_ didn't even know? I thought he was _safe _with _you_! _Why didn't you call me_?"

"I couldn't," he retorted, weakly. "I did something...terrible."

"_What else is _new?"

"No! You don't understand! I did something... I told him everything. He knows everything. He hated me so much for it." Resting his forehead in his palm, he added, miserably, "Roderich, he wrote me... He's going to give up...out there. If something happened to him, I-"

"You... You...knew, the whole time, and you never bothered to tell me. How _dare _you endanger him because of your _pride_!"

"How could I ask you? After what happened-"

"You let your own feelings get in the way of Ludwig," Roderich said, "like you always do." He fell silent, and Gilbert opened his mouth, but before he could even try to defend himself, Roderich added, "I'll find him and get him out. If you haven't _killed _him already."

There was a click, and nothing more.

"Please find him," he moaned, burying his face in his hands. "Oh, God, please. Please, please, please..."

Helpless and frightened and guilty, he could only burst into tears, collapsing on the floor as darkness consumed him.

The world rested on Roderich's shoulders.

* * *

A/N : 'Menjünk' is Hungarian for 'C'mon' or 'Let's go', if you're curious.

**Next chapter : **Ludwig is caught up in enemy territory, and just wants everything to be over with. But someone who looks strangely familiar may have other ideas...


	14. June 29, 1915

Chapter 13

**June 29th, 1915**

The fires had already started in the distance, the grey plumes of smoke rising up into the clouds, turning what would have otherwise been bright, white sunlight into blood red stains on the horizon. The smoke that was not drifting upward hung low over the forests, smothering the trees in darkness. There were no birds singing. The flowers were ashen. Even the river, so nearby, seemed to have slowed down in despair.

The glorious mountains of before were unrecognizable.

It was only noon. It looked like midnight.

And in this suffocating darkness, ducked down inside a trench, covered head to toe in mud and clutching a rifle to his chest, sat Ludwig. He was huddled up against his comrades, chest heaving in fear and exhaustion as a hail of bullets fell from overhead. He sank down against the wall of dirt, knowing that even peering above the edge of the trench would result in almost immediate death. The Austrians he had come here with fell into his sides, fearfully, and he looked up and over, where the Hungarians sat patiently, waiting for the enemy to reload.

One of them caught his eye, and smiled, saying in broken German, "Not to be scared, eh?"

He nodded, bravely, but inside his head, he was panicking.

Easier said than done.

This was his sixth day in this dug-out hole, and he was surprised that he was still alive. The Hungarian that had kept him company on the rock ledge days ago was not. The Austrian that had asked him so many questions was not. So why was he?

It didn't seem fair.

Maybe it was because he had subconsciously struggled for survival, whether his stubborn mind wanted to or not. When he had decided that this battle would be his last, he had envisioned the deaths that he heard about in school: the patriotic soldier, burning out in a blaze of glory on the battlefield, and everyone thought that he was a hero, to be lamented and honored.

He looked around, at the scared boys huddle in he mud, and felt faint.

There was no honor here. There was nothing glorious in this trench, surrounded by death and dirt and crying boys, taken too soon from their mothers. There was only misery and despair, and he had not envisioned his death to be so saturated in gloom and hopelessness.

Meaningless.

His ears pricked up, as the gunshots overhead finally stopped, and that was the signal. Leaping to their feet, they placed their rifles on the edge of the trench, firing back as quick as they could. Every round set off pushed the rifled back into his collar bone, painfully, but he did not feel it. All he could feel was emptiness. And now the Italians were cowering over in their own trenches, waiting, for either death or opportunity.

How could anyone leave here the victor?

"Watch out!"

He looked over at the cry, and his eyes fell in horror on the grenade that had landed next to him, only a foot away, small and dark and almost innocent. He should grab it, he knew, but he froze up, heart racing. It would go off at any second, and he fell back, but someone grabbed it, and, pulling back his arm, threw it as far away as he could.

There was a second of silence, and then an explosion that made his temples hurt.

The man caught his eye, and nodded. Ludwig could only stare back, feeling cowardly and inferior. He should have acted. He had been closer. But how could he have known that war was this hard?

He tried to focus, and the grenade that had been tossed away was promptly replaced by three more.

And this time, everyone froze up, and then they scattered. Someone grabbed Ludwig's arm, and yanked him back, dragging him away from certain demise. He found his own feet, and ran as fast as he could. More grenades fell, and several of them forced the men to crawl out of their only protection, and Ludwig followed behind. They moved through the mud, into the middle of the no man's land, caught between two trenches.

The fell to their stomachs, trying to make it to the safety of the forest before the Italians gunned them down. Ludwig, stunned and breathless, remained upright, holding his rifle tightly. He should get down, he knew. But his feet just wouldn't move.

Dazed, he looked up at the forest, and, ridiculously, he smiled.

He had gone hiking in forests like this, only a few years ago in Africa. He had been alone then, too, in the tangled trees and vines, but Roderich had been waiting for him on the other side. There hadn't been any worry. And that forest had been quiet. There hadn't been any gunshots, no grenade blasts, no screams or death rattles.

Maybe, he thought absurdly, there was someone waiting for him on the other side of this forest too.

He took a step forward, and then a horrid, shrill whistle drew his eyes from the tree line and into the sky. A thin trail of smoke from the ledge of the mountain could only mean one thing: a mortar had been fired. And it looked like it was coming straight for him.

Feeling a twist of horror in his stomach, he realized he had allowed his mind to wander, and he was in the path of danger. Coming back to reality with a jolt, he bolted as fast as he could, survival instincts taking over, but he had barely made it twenty yards before the shell hit the side of the hill on which he had stood with frightening precision, the force of the explosion moving the very ground beneath him.

He fell, covering his head with his arms protectively. He had never heard anything so loud in his life. The silence after seemed as intense as the explosion, and he shuddered.

Ears aching, he forced himself onto his feet, a rush of adrenaline the only thing giving him strength. He took a step forward and tripped over nothing, the sudden shock to his equilibrium too much. But he could not stay here. Unbalanced, he staggered as fast as he could into the forest, stopping for nothing. He pushed through the sharp pine branches, cutting his hands and face, but he did not notice; his heart was beating too fast to pay attention to the blood.

He ran.

After what seemed like an eternity, the machinegun fire and grenade blasts began to fade in the distance, and he slowed his pace, chest aching.

The trees were thinning, ever so slightly, but he was unaware of the lack of cover.

He leapt through a small creek, an offspring of the mighty Soča, stumbling in the sand, and when he dragged himself up the other bank, he collapsed onto his stomach, his rifle tucked beneath him. He was exhausted, mentally and physically. With a groan, he tried to move, and could not.

Looking around, he realized the corners of his vision were turning dark, as his head began to spin. He was so _tired_. Laying his head down, he exhaled heavily, and closed his eyes. He could have slept right there, having no mind of the consequences, and he wouldn't have to fight in this hell anymore.

But...

Now that he faced death, he was uncertain.

Gilbert had given _so_ much, for so long.

And how distressed would Roderich be if he fell?

How could he do this to them?

He had to tell them how much he appreciated their sacrifices. Gilbert had risked his life, and Roderich had given up his marriage..

At least try.

With a groan, he forced himself to come back from the darkness, despite his exhaustion, and with immense effort he opened his eyes and looked around blearily.

He was alone.

No one else had run this way, and there was no way that he could cry out for them. Not without the possibility of giving himself away to someone who could be less friendly. The hopelessness of the situation began to gnaw at him, and he barely had the strength to pull himself up and stagger onward in this strangely silent forest.

He was only vaguely aware that his rifle was not loaded.

Some part of him just didn't care.

And where _was _he?

Perhaps he was in enemy territory; it seemed that sometimes, as he walked gently past, the brush around him would shift strangely. The hairs on the back of his neck began to raise in alarm, and he changed direction, heading east.

The air here felt wrong.

But still, he walked on, his footsteps crunching lightly over shed pine needles. Maybe he was going in circles, as he passed another small creek. Was it the same one? He changed direction again, head pounding. He couldn't think...

And then, to his dismay, he walked straight into a rock face, so steep that it was impossible to scale. There was no away around. No paths that led up. He could have turned around and gone back, but his despair was too great, and he was just too tired. Falling to his knees wearily, he let his rifle fall to his side, staring up at the smoky skies.

This was it.

This was all he had.

Falling forward, he rested his head in the dirt and moss, and sighed deeply, giving up.

He just couldn't...

"I'm sorry," he muttered to no one, and closed his eyes.

As the darkness overcame him, he lost track of time and place, and after what seemed like an eternity, he could have sworn that he heard Gilbert's voice, whispering gently above him. He tried to respond, but had no voice, and was content to listen, even if he could not grasp the words.

And then, suddenly, a booted foot came into contact with his hair; gently prodding him, as though curious. He didn't move at first, and the foot retreated.

"_Sei vivo_?"

The voice was louder now, and he realized with a lurch of helplessness that it was not Gilbert.

Maybe it was Death.

Calmly, he opened his eyes, but did not move, waiting patiently and expectantly for the gunshot that would end his life.

But it didn't come.

Why?

The scuffling around him told him he was certainly not alone, and the strange language told him that it was certainly not an Austrian.

Maybe they thought he was already dead. But he could fix that. Slowly and wearily, he reached for his rifle, but when he pulled himself to his feet, with the intention of _forcing _this intruder to shoot him dead, all that he got was a high-pitched cry of alarm.

"_Sei vivo_!"

The man that had been prodding him fell back onto the ground, losing his rifle, eyes wide and fearful. For a moment, Ludwig was too startled to move, and could only stare down at him.

He was amazed.

The colors of this man's uniform were that of the Italian army; he knew that much, at least. And it struck him immediately that the Italian looked familiar. _Very _familiar... He squinted his eyes thoughtfully, as he studied him.

Brunette, lithe in form and golden-eyed, and cowardly, as he hugged his retrieved rifle to his chest and looked up at Ludwig with a face full of fear and worry.

"_No, no, no_," he cried over and over, kicking his heels in the dirt to push himself as far back from the German as he could. "_Non uccidimi_!"

Slowly, Ludwig's unloaded rifle lowered to his side, and he shifted awkwardly, as reluctant to do harm as the Italian was to be harmed. It seemed _unlikely _that this man would shoot him. His disappointment at this fact was overshadowed by something that he couldn't quite put his finger on; an unfamiliar sense of nagging, as though his subconscious was trying to tell him something.

And, God, he looked _so_ familiar...

It struck him suddenly like lightening, and he stepped forward, whispering, in disbelief, "L-Lovino?" He was excited, almost, to have run into someone he knew, but the smile that had almost formed on his face fell before it was complete.

"_N-no_!"

This wasn't Lovino, no matter how alike they looked, and to confirm it the Italian boy shook his head emphatically, with wide eyes. Ludwig fell back, disheartened.

He had hoped...

"Sorry," he muttered, and began to back away. It wasn't Lovino. The disappointment was crushing. Even if they had never gotten along, the thought of being here with someone he knew, even Lovino, would have been immensely comforting.

He was still alone.

But...

Something still gnawed at him, and he tried again, adding lowly, even though he knew the Italian could not understand him, "Do I know you?" It was useless, he knew, and probably foolish, and certainly it was fraternizing, but what else could he do? "Don't I know...you?"

There was a moment of silent incomprehension, and Ludwig felt his heart sink. Why did this man look so familiar? There was a faint memory that was dancing tantalizingly before him, but he couldn't grasp it.

"I _know _you! I know I do... Why can't I remember?" He reached up and ran a hand through his dirty hair, whispering, miserably, "Don't you know me, too?"

The Italian was too scared to speak, gazing up at him as his chest heaved, and he gave up. There was no way he could know this man, he resigned himself to believe, so there was no point in tormenting him further.

Maybe it was just the stress of being here that was making him think strange things.

He was about to turn and walk away, but his politeness overcame his combat training, and Ludwig extended a hand to the fallen solider, amicably. A terrified whimper and a frantic scramble backwards was his only response, and he sighed, pulling back.

"Sorry."

He could do no more, and he shouldn't linger here. Besides, this soldier undoubtedly knew his way around better than he did.

Turning on his heel, he started to walk off, assuming that he would leave the yet unknown Italian in peace, and would be left in peace in return.

He assumed wrong, and a sharp cry caught his ear.

"_No! No! Devi ritornare! Oveste! Oveste!_"

He looked over his shoulder, where the Italian soldier had pulled himself to his feet and was waving his arms emphatically, shouting at him in what seemed to be alarm. He was obviously trying to convey a message, and apparently an important one, but Ludwig could only shake his head, helplessly, and whisper, "I'm sorry. I don't understand."

He was too crestfallen to attempt another conversation.

The Italian's face fell when, ignoring whatever it was he had said, Ludwig took another step forward, intent on carrying on. He had barely gotten a yard away before he heard steps behind him, and he turned, instinctively, and suddenly the lonesome Italian was grabbing onto his sleeve, trying to pull him back.

"_No_!"

Too weary to pull away, Ludwig said, gently, "Please, I have to go now. I'm sorry. You'll...you'll be alright."

But the man did not let go, and, realizing that speaking was not working, he placed his hands on his chest, and then pointed at the trees. He did it again, and again, and finally, Ludwig began to understand.

He felt ice run down the back of his neck.

"There are more soldiers that way," he breathed, and looked around as the adrenaline began to flow through his veins. He was possibly surrounded, and he had certainly been about to walk into certain death. But...

Wasn't that what he wanted? Certainly he had just encountered the odd solider, nonviolent and maybe friendly, but the other soldiers would not be so lenient. They would shoot him, certainly, and they would give him his release that he desperately sought.

But then he caught the Italian's gentle eyes, and the smile that the other gave him was so sincere and hopeful that it infused him with a new desire to try and live.

Maybe there wasn't all bad in the world, after all, and here was someone else who did not belong in this mess of a war.

The Italian saw his change in demeanor, and pointed west, smile never faltering. "_Oveste_."

"It's safe that way?" He looked to the direction that was being pointed to, and tried to smile. "Well... Live and let live, right?"

The Italian only continued to smile, and shifted his weight shyly, whispering, "_Mi salvavi... Grazie..._"

He understood 'Grazie', the only word he _did _understand, and this time he really did smile as he felt an old spark of himself come out. Taking the Italians hands within his own, he was once again certain that this man was not a stranger. It was impossible. And the other knew it too, didn't he? He could see it in the gentle, golden eyes, and that was why he smiled so bashfully.

Who was he?

But he didn't have time to dwell on it, for the Italian broke away and tried to shove him onward. He understood the urgency, and knew it was time to leave. He began to head out, reluctantly, looking over his shoulder and he trekked further and further into the brush.

And he could have sworn, as he lost sight of the Italian, that he heard him whisper thoughtfully, "_Ludovico sei vivo._.."

Heart trembling, he lost himself to his confused emotions as the trees began to turn into fields. So distracted was he that he did not even see the two armed men who were walking straight towards him, chests visible above the tall grass. One of them was holding a photograph which he studied intently.

Careless, he would have walked right past them if one of them hadn't reached out and grabbed his shoulder roughly, asking, "Ludwig Beilschmidt?"

He heard the voice as though in a dream, and could only look up and ask, breathlessly, "Y-yes?"

"Come with us."

"Okay," he replied, tranquilly, and allowed them to lead him off, too far off in his own world to react differently. As he walked blindly with them, he thought he smelled smoke and something burning, the aroma sickly and sweet.

Someone was crying.

And then he looked around, and realized he was back in the Austro-Hungarian stronghold. He came crashing back down to Earth with a sickening lurch of his stomach, as the soldiers scattered on the ground cried out in agony as doctors tended their wounds. They were the ones pulled alive from the trenches, burned beyond recognition from the mortar that he had ran to avoid.

He realized that, once again, he had survived the day unscathed, as his comrades died around him.

He bowed his head. Even in trying to die he was a failure.

Through the screams of pain and the blinding smoke, he realized that someone was speaking to him, and tried to focus.

"I'm sorry?"

"I said you're being reassigned," one of the men that had intercepted him in the field barked, and grabbed his arm. Now that he was aware of his surroundings, he was less eager to be led away.

"Reassigned? Where?"

"I don't know. My orders are just to make sure you get back to Vienna. You'll get your own orders there." He studied Ludwig briefly, curiously, and asked, "Are you ready?"

Pulling away from the man's grip, he shook his head.

"I can't leave."

"That's not your decision anymore," the other added.

"I won't go," he said, stubbornly, and braced his feet. "I was sent here to fight against the Italian aggressors. I can't leave my post."

Snorting, the men shared a look, and shrugged.

"Listen, these orders are from parliament itself. I don't know how or why, but you can't stay here."

"Besides," the other said, cheerfully, "The Italians are already being pushed back." He pointed to the trees from which Ludwig had just staggered. "Look there! See the trees move? We finally got the reinforcements that we've needed. Every Italian in that forest is being shot right now." His ears rang as his heart sank into his stomach.

_Every Italian in that forest is being shot._

He took a wobbly step forward, some part of his mind thinking absurdly that he had to go. He had to stop them. He had to find that one soldier, that had saved his life, and he had to tell them that this man was not to be harmed. He could be taken prisoner. He could maybe even just be let loose. Or maybe...

"Let's go."

"No!" he cried, and made a desperate run for the forest, refusing to let go of that one shard of hope that had been given him; the one possible link to something in his past.

Something he _remembered_, even if he couldn't put a name or place to it.

He didn't make it, and the men had tackled him to the ground before he had even gotten to the edge of the field. He fought against them, with all his strength, but to no avail. As he screamed and cursed, they dragged him off, and the next thing he knew they had thrown him in the back of a military-issued vehicle.

"Calm down! It's gonna be alright!"

"We'll be there before long. Just sleep. We'll be there when you wake up."

And then something sharp pricked his arm, and he was overcome with a terrible dizziness, then drowsiness, and he could hear the Italian's soft voice in his ears, and then there was nothing at all.


	15. June 30, 1915

Chapter 14

**June 30th, 1915**

The roads were difficult to traverse in the mountains, all moving vehicles hindered by military roadblocks on the narrow passes. The delays were frustrating, even to the most patient of drivers. And even the military vehicles were stopped and delayed, by their own military counterparts. What sense did that make? The soldiers in the front seat of one military truck took an extra second to curse the other soldiers on the road.

But Ludwig didn't even notice that the trip to Vienna was taking longer than expected, as the first light of dawn broke over the horizon. He wasn't aware of anything. Not really.

He felt like he was drifting in a sea of clouds, thanks in no small part to the tranquilizers his make-shift captors had been injecting him with. Before one drug could wear off, they came at him with another. They considered him a great flight risk, he supposed, and maybe he was. If given the opportunity, it was more than possible that he could tuck and roll from the slow-moving, lumbering truck.

He didn't want to go to Vienna.

He didn't want to see Roderich, because he was _certain _that Roderich had something to do with this. It was the only possible explanation. But why? How had he come to realize that he was in Italy?

Drowsy, he laid his head against the window, and closed his eyes.

He was too exhausted to worry about it, and too sick at heart to care what Roderich now had in store for him. Maybe he would have him sent off to the Eastern front, where victories were easier and more certain. Maybe he would keep him in Vienna as a reserve. That was likely, and maybe that was best; he was not competent enough to be on the frontlines. He had proven that already, when he had been unable to save that Italian. How could he be expected to protect his country? His comrades?

He tried desperately to clear his mind of these heavy thoughts, and allowed himself to drift into an uneasy sleep.

His dreams were blurry and disjointed. Disturbing.

The sun was already high in the horizon when he awoke again, and this time when he did so it was with clarity. They had stopped using the tranquilizers, and when he sat up straight, one of the soldiers was twisted in his seat, head rested on folded arms, watching him with unnerving intensity.

"Good morning, sunshine," he drawled, and Ludwig winced at his voice, realizing how badly his head was hurting. And the leer he received-curious and unyielding and almost resentful-was just as grating. But Ludwig refused to look away, already irritated.

"We're almost there."

He didn't respond, and the soldier scrutinized him, and what was really on his mind came to light as he said, derisively, "I wonder what's so special about _you _that the Emperor had to stop in the middle of a war and issue a summons to send _us _so far out of the way, into the middle of nowhere, searching. Why _you_?" He shifted restlessly, and raised a brow. "_Oh_! Hey, I get it. Your family must be part of the Imperials, right? Distant, I guess, or else you probably wouldn't have got sent out in the first place." He blew air through his teeth, and sighed, "Must be nice..."

And now Ludwig looked away, as the beautiful, chiseled buildings of Vienna passed by, and said, "I don't have any family."

Before the soldier could respond, the truck lurched to a halt in front of an unfamiliar building.

"Here's where you get off," the driver said, and Ludwig did not hesitate, jumping out with unsteady legs. He looked up, and realized, with a sinking heart, that he was at the Imperial Embassy.

So, it had been Roderich, after all...

What would he say?

Shaking his head morosely, he forced himself up the marble steps, and behind him, the two soldiers watched him go. One of them ran his hand through his hair, in confusion.

"I just...don't _get _it!"

"Me either," the other said, and then they were gone.

Above, Ludwig had pushed open the door, and slipped inside the embassy as inconspicuously as possible. But he was unsuccessful in his attempt to slink by, and as soon as the door closed behind him, he was suddenly the center of attention. Uncomfortable though he was, he tried to hold his head high, and walked boldly towards the desk where the secretary sat.

As he did so, he passed a mirror, and did a double take at his reflection. What he saw in the glass horrified him.

He was filthy.

Covered head to toe in mud and scratches, his hair was caked in dirt (he realized absurdly that he was now a brunette), his uniform was soiled beyond recognition, and looking back, he realized that his boots had left a trail of dried mud behind him. He looked like death itself, and what few patches of skin were visible were white as a ghost. No wonder they stopped in the hall and looked at him so, startled and almost embarrassed.

Embarrassed for _him_, he realized with a rise of shame, and he bowed his head, trying to carry on. Arms limp at his sides, he stopped in front of the desk, and said, lowly, "Can... May I see Roderich Edelstein, please?"

He could not meet her eyes, not wanting to see the disgust there.

"Um... D-Do you have an appointment?"

He shook his head, and she fell back in her seat warily. "I'm sorry, sir. If you don't have an appointment, then there's nothing I can do. He won't see you."

"Can't you at least tell him I'm here?"

"He won't see you," she repeated, sternly and without sympathy, and Ludwig sighed in defeat.

He had just turned on his heel, thinking that he would have to wait outside until Roderich's busy day ended, when a loud voice rang out in the stone hall, "Don't speak to him like that."

Looking over his shoulder, he saw that Roderich had come out of his office, and immediately had turned on his secretary.

"This man," he began, loud enough so that everyone inside could hear, "is an Imperial soldier, straight from the trenches! He's been fighting bravely against the Italian traitors. He deserves nothing but respect."

And immediately, the stares upon him were friendlier, but he didn't notice; Roderich had suddenly caught his gaze, and for a moment, he felt a smile forming on his face. But it fell quickly, when he saw Roderich, really saw him, for the first time.

The Austrian was almost unfamiliar.

What had once been glossy, meticulously styled hair without even the smallest of tangles, was now a dull, flat mess, straight as an arrow against his head. Once perfectly ironed and lint-free clothes were now wrinkled and unkempt, and his tie was crooked. His glasses were scratched. The violet eyes were tired and resigned, framed by dark shadows.

He looked worn-down and exhausted.

The war had taken its toll.

Nevertheless, he was smiling, and Ludwig felt a twinge of guilt in his chest. Roderich looked _so _happy to see him, and it was probably the first time in months that he had smiled.

But still he was uncomfortable here.

Still beaming, Roderich turned to his assistant and said, dismissively, "Cancel and reschedule all my appointments for the rest of the week. I'll be back on Monday."

She gaped, and finally stammered, "A-alright..."

He wanted to speak, to tell Roderich that that wasn't necessary, but he lost his voice when the brunette walked past him, and held open the door. He had no choice but to follow, and before he knew it, he was standing before Roderich's car, feeling a flood of warm familiarity flow through him.

Here was someone he knew, a place he knew, even if they did not know him in return. Not truthfully.

"Get in. Let's go home."

He shuffled his feet uncertainly.

"I can't. I'm so dirty..."

Years ago, when he had lived here in Vienna, Roderich would have keeled over dead if Ludwig had trailed mud and dirt inside his spotless vehicle. But now he only shook his head, started the engine, and said, "Don't worry about it."

_Don't worry about it._

Why was it that everyone he knew told him that? It was condescending, almost, and he wanted to say that he would damn well worry about whatever he wanted to. He didn't need anyone holding his hand, telling him not to worry, like a child...

But he climbed inside nonetheless, and refused to meet Roderich's eyes as they drove. Whatever warm feelings he had had were already gone, as he remembered (maybe irrationally, and certainly unfairly to Roderich) that it was the Austrian who had started this whole mess years ago, when he had plucked him off the streets.

He should have just left him there alone.

Why couldn't he have just left him there?

His head hurt, and Roderich tried to make simple conversation to no avail, as he ignored every attempt. He shouldn't be taking out his frustrations on Roderich, he knew, but who else was there? Gilbert was gone. He had no family.

When the car pulled up the drive, and he caught sight of the house, he was overcome with that same dark depression that had been gnawing at him for so long now, and barely had the strength to pull himself from the car. There were so many memories in this house, and he now knew that those memories had been created under false pretenses.

He wanted to stay put, to say that, before he could set foot in that house, he had to know the truth about everything. And he had to know...

Why couldn't Roderich have told him? Didn't he trust him?

But his mind and his body were not cooperating, and he realized that he was already halfway up the steps. Absently, he looked off to the distance, and saw that Erszébet's once-flowering garden had died, leaving behind only a patch of dry, arid dirt, void even of weeds.

Maybe the war had taken its toll on her, too.

"Ludwig?"

He started, and saw that Roderich was holding the door open, patiently. When had he gotten out of the car? He shook his head to clear it, and walked through the threshold. He didn't want to enter, but God, he was so tired. If Roderich would just let him sleep...

As soon Roderich led him into the living room, he collapsed onto the sofa the second the invitation to sit came from Roderich's lips. He was ruining the couch, he knew, he was so dirty. If he hadn't been so exhausted, he would have been mortified and ashamed.

All he felt was numb.

"Stay here, " Roderich began, and Ludwig heard him faintly and as though from a distance, "and I'll try to make you something to eat. I'll make tea, too..."

He wasn't hungry, or thirsty, but he didn't say as much, as he stared despondently at the wall in front of him. Roderich shifted his weight, and with a heavy sigh was gone, and Ludwig zoned into another world, where the forest around the Soča was not on fire, and the Italian he had failed to save knew his name and was walking beside him, and his lost memories were coming back to him steadily.

He preferred that daydream to his reality.

* * *

What good would it do?

Roderich asked himself this question, over and over again, as he paced to and fro aimlessly in the kitchen, forgetting already the tea he had promised to make. What good _would _it do? It should have been an easy question to answer, as he glanced across the room to the hall, where the phone was hanging.

What good would it do to call Gilbert, and tell him?

Tell him that Ludwig was alive and (relatively) well.

He turned his back to the hall, trying desperately to focus his mind back on the task at hand. After all, he had never before given a moment of his time to even _consider _contacting Gilbert, and the thought alone was enough to make his skin crawl. And what was more, he owed Gilbert nothing. Nothing.

Except Ludwig's life.

"Goddammit," he cursed softly to himself, and hung his head. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew full well that if Gilbert hadn't contacted him, there was a great possibility that Ludwig would never have left the mountains of Italy alive.

For that, didn't the Prussian deserve to know whether or not Ludwig was alive?

"_Goddammit_," he swore again, and with heavy feet trudged to the phone. He had swallowed his pride once, to call Erszébet, and by God, he could do it again with Gilbert.

And so he did, leaning against the wall as he dialed the number half-heartedly. He didn't have to wait long for an answer, and the first ring was only half-complete when an eager voice came on, crying, "Hello?"

"Gilbert?"

"Roderich!" Gilbert responded, in an expectant, relieved tone of voice that Roderich had never heard in reference to himself. It was strange, and unpleasant, but he carried on nonetheless, knowing that it was only the desperation for news that made Gilbert sound this way.

"Ludwig, he's..."

"Well? Tell me! Oh, God, tell me," Gilbert moaned, and Roderich braced himself.

"I just thought you should know..."

"_What_?"

"Ludwig's..."

He trailed off, not wanting to say it, but when Gilbert (undoubtedly thinking that he was going to say that he had gotten there too late) began to cry on the other line, he had no choice but to say, lowly, "I've got him here. He's safe."

"Really?" Gilbert screeched, and Roderich's heart sank at the emotion in the normally arrogant voice as he added, enthusiastically, "I'm coming to see him!"

He shuddered, and began, "That's not-"

But Gilbert had already hung up, and he shook his head, finishing weakly, "...necessary." Gingerly, he set the phone down, his stomach sick. It was the twisting of envy, and he hated how it felt.

He did not want Gilbert to come out here (again) and see Ludwig. It was selfish, maybe, but the last thing he wanted was a repeat of the previous confrontation. And this time, given the circumstances, he would _have _to let Gilbert in his home. He would at least have to let him speak with Ludwig, uninterrupted, and that was just too much.

He _hated_ Gilbert.

He hated how much Gilbert cared for Ludwig.

But most of all he hated himself, for being such a coward that he could not confess his feelings and settle the whole matter.

Wondering how exactly he had gotten himself into this situation, Roderich made his way back into the living room, empty handed and agitated.

But then, Ludwig didn't notice. Ludwig, he realized, didn't notice _anything_, and had not moved an inch since he had walked out, still staring at the wall in front of him with alarming blankness.

"Ludwig?"

Silence.

Taking a seat next to the blonde, he tried again, the heavy atmosphere too much to bear. "Please talk to me," he begged, desperately, but Ludwig only sent him the saddest of gazes, and bowed his head.

Well...

What else could he do?

"Gilbert said that...he's on his way here to see you," he whispered, as he reached out and gingerly pulled the mud-stained, ripped officer's shirt from Ludwig's shoulders, trying to be as gentle as possible. He glanced up, hoping for some sort of response, but Ludwig showed no sign of having heard him.

Sighing, he pulled the shirt into his lap, reaching into the end table beside the couch and pulling out a small box. As he removed the thread and needle from within, he stayed silent, choosing not to push Ludwig too far. He would speak when he was ready, and he could not expect anything else from someone fresh from the trenches.

Gathering the fabric the best he could, he set to work, sewing the small rips together with efficiency. The larger ones would need patches, of course, and...

"You don't have to do that."

The husky whisper startled him, and he looked over, caught in a sudden, serious gaze. Ludwig was mere inches away, ice-blue eyes strangely emotionless.

"It's alright," he said, uneasily, but Ludwig only turned away, facing the wall as he had before.

"I'll just throw it out."

Defeated, Roderich could only stammer, "A-alright," and set the shirt aside.

He had never expected to keep such a filthy thing, of course, and he had never expected Ludwig to wear it again, but he needed something to do with his hands before he went insane.

"I'm tired," Ludwig suddenly whispered, and Roderich started upright.

"Of course," he said, immediately, mortified at his idiocy. Ludwig was exhausted, no doubt, and he led the way. He could not help but notice that Ludwig's previously heavy steps were now suddenly silent and stealthy behind him. Maybe that had been part of his training. Glancing back, he shuddered; even his gait was that of a phantom.

When they came to the door, he paused, and asked, tentatively, "Will you be alright?"

Ludwig only nodded, and despite the reluctance in his heart to leave Ludwig alone, he nodded and retreated, closing the door gently behind him. He lingered for a moment, and after a moment he heard running water, and granted Ludwig his privacy.

With little else to do, he went to his own room, and, even though it was only mid-afternoon, he laid down on his bed. He was tired too, and soon drifted off, his mind churning.

Daylight faded, slowly, into a gentle night.

Roderich awoke suddenly sometime later in a daze, opening his eyes as a wave of anxiety and unease came over him. He sat up, alarmed, and looked about, seeking out that which had awoken him. It was too dark, at first, but his eyes soon adjusted with the help of the faint moon, and he felt another pang of alarm when he realized that his bedroom door was slung wide open.

And Ludwig stood in the frame, pale hair shining white in the light of the moon, piercing blue eyes boring through him. He shuddered, heart racing terribly, as he said, weakly and uneasily, "Ludwig?"

There wasn't an immediate response as Ludwig only took a silent step forward, and, for a moment, the intense, terrifying expression on Ludwig's face made him fall back in fear. When the blond took another step, he pushed the cover down, preparing himself for flight.

He had heard stories of soldiers coming home from wars and reliving some of the more intense moments, and he wondered if, perhaps, Ludwig thought he was back in the trenches. The severity of his brow and the burning in his eyes certainly could be considered an indication of silent danger, and Roderich again said, though more sternly, "Ludwig!"

Another step, and then, suddenly, the air of menace dissolved. His brow came up and the fire in his eyes burned down into anguish, and Ludwig whispered, arms loose at his sides, "I couldn't sleep..."

Roderich opened his mouth, but all he came up with was a weak, "Oh," and tried to calm himself. But it was hard, especially when Ludwig approached the edge of the bed, and added, pathetically, "Can I...stay here? Just tonight. Please."

He didn't have time to respond, and suddenly Ludwig was at his side, breathing softly and seemingly in a daze. He pulled the cover up to his chest, and rolled over, and Roderich could only stare down at him, speechless.

Before this war, he would have done _anything_, given any amount of money, to have Ludwig beside him in this bed. And now...

He was afraid of him.

It was a horrible feeling, he realized, guiltily; it wasn't Ludwig's fault, after all. He should have tried harder to find his voice. But he was granted another opportunity, for Ludwig rolled back over, and looked up at him, ice-blue eyes piercing the darkness. Roderich tried to smile, and failed, and Ludwig stated seriously, "You're scared."

There was no point in lying. Ludwig would have seen right through him. So, with no other option, he nodded.

Ludwig seemed unaffected, and said, "That's okay. You should be." He caught Roderich's eye, and whispered, "I'm a murderer, you know."

"That's not your fault," Roderich responded immediately, and tried to push away his unease. "None of that was your fault. It's unfortunate, what happened, and I know it hurts, now, but...it will get better, in time." His voice sounded surer than he felt. "If you wanted to talk about it-"

"I don't," Ludwig interrupted, and Roderich shifted.

"That's alright..."

He tried to settle down, longing to be free of this anxiety, but then Ludwig (who seemed to have a knack for creating awkward situations from scratch) asked, "Where's Erszébet?"

Feeling a pang in his chest, he shook his head and muttered, "She...left."

"Oh."

He thought that was the end, but Ludwig persisted, "Where'd she go?"

Why was he dragging this out?

"She went back to Hungary."

There was a pause, and then Ludwig said, "It's my fault. Sorry."

Roderich shook his head again, old wounds opened. "No. That wasn't your fault either. It was mine. It was always my fault, everything she did..." He turned away from Ludwig, focusing on his hands, twisting them together in agitation. "I used to think that we would be together forever. We never argued when we were younger, you know. I thought that her personality was...charming. And then..."

"Then I came, right?"

Roderich couldn't think of a response, freezing up, and Ludwig sighed deeply, turning away.

"You should hate me," Ludwig breathed, "like I hate myself."

"You shouldn't hate yourself, Ludwig. You're too good a person. I should be the only here hating himself. Every day that goes by, I start to realize that every decision that I've ever made has been wrong. And there's no one I can blame, except myself." He closed his eyes, thinking back on every word exchanged, every action taken, every disappointment. "I thought it was everyone else's fault. I _still _do, " he corrected. "I'm still like that. But I'm not sure if I can change that. I think blaming yourself takes courage. You're brave, Ludwig, that's why you can accept blame so easily... I can't. I have to be right. I _have _to be. Because, if I'm wrong, then...how could anyone respect me? How could anyone look up to me?"

He looked over at the still, silent Ludwig, and felt his desperation intensify. He needed reassurance in himself. He needed vindication. As long as Ludwig still cared for him...

"I hope that I never did anything to upset you. I only wanted to make sure that you were safe." He scoffed at himself. "I guess...I failed, huh? I didn't mean for any of this to happen. You should hate _me_, not yourself. How... How could someone like _you _ever feel anything for someone like me?"

There was no response, and, emboldened, he gathered his nerves, and whispered, honestly, "Ludwig, I... I love you." It was something he had tried to say for so long, and he was so proud of himself that it took him several seconds to realize that Ludwig had long since been asleep, as the blond's feet twitched in the middle of a dream. He had been speaking only to himself.

The disappointment was crushing.

He fell back, burying his face in his hands.

He did not sleep, spending the rest of the night staring at the ceiling as Ludwig's soft breathing kept him company.

* * *

**Next chapter : **Gilbert comes to see his brother, just as Roderich is set to leave again. It's up to Ludwig to decide where he wants to go.


	16. July 10, 1915

Chapter 15

**July 10th, 1915**

The days were long.

The bloody battle on the banks of the Isonzo had ended, in his favor, the Russians were being continually pushed back, and things were looking exceedingly positive for the empire. It should have been an encouraging, somewhat happy time in his life, and yet still Roderich was miserable.

_Miserable_.

Ludwig would not speak during the day, no matter how hard he pushed. He would speak only at night, and only if he were having trouble sleeping, and then, his voice was strange and unnerving.

Too quiet, and not his own.

Distant.

And, as much as he hated to admit it, Roderich felt like he had started sleeping with one eye open, to ease the anxiety and even fear that lingered in his chest when the sun went down.

Ludwig had suddenly become a shadow on his consciousness, silent and brooding and alarmingly unreadable.

Possibly dangerous.

A phantom, returning from the trenches with a strange, gloomy unpredictability.

It hurt more than anything else to admit that some part of him had become afraid of Ludwig.

Of the lost little kid he'd picked up off the streets. The gentle, smart, kind-hearted young man that had quickly won him over.

This was not the Ludwig that had left him over a year ago.

How quickly things could change.

But, nevertheless, he would not give up. How could he?

And whatever could be said about Ludwig's apparent oath of silence and strange demeanor, it made him a damn good listener, and Roderich had not passed up the opportunity to pour out all of his problems into the blond's ever present ear. Not so long ago, admitting he had problems at all would have been too hard to admit, but what the hell; the time for pride was long gone.

He no longer had the luxury of pretending he was perfect.

He told Ludwig everything.

His uncertainty about the war, Erszébet's departure, his futile attempts to bring her back, his anger when Gilbert had called, and then the fear that came after, and his own insecurities.

There was never any response, but he could see it in Ludwig's eyes that he was listening, and comprehending.

It was a great weight off his shoulders, and he hoped in the back of his mind that his words were slowly bringing Ludwig back from the darkness.

Back from the abyss.

He hated looking at Ludwig and feeling _frightened_.

He told Ludwig _everything_.

Well...

_Almost _everything

He couldn't say _those _words again, not after his almost epic blunder before. Even thinking about it was mortifying. Confessing love to Ludwig when he was asleep...

How much lamer could it get?

None at all. It couldn't possibly get any lamer than _that_.

The piano keys felt cold and unforgiving beneath his fingertips as he sat there, hands too heavy to do much and head hurting too much to really even think.

One word, however, was ever present in his mind.

Idiot.

Idiot, idiot, idiot.

"I'm such an _idiot_," he finally moaned to himself as he leaned forward, resting his head on the closed piano before him and wallowing in self-pity. "I deserve an award for social incompetence. ...couldn't'a been worse if fuckin' Gilbert had written it."

Well, it was true, but he straightened up and smiled amicably nonetheless when Ludwig slipped inside the room, silently, as always.

Silence.

Ludwig stared at him with that exceedingly unnerving intensity, and didn't say a word.

Roderich could only shift his weight on the piano bench, and clear his throat.

When it became obvious that Ludwig would not offer words, he finally opened his mouth.

"I was looking for you earlier," he half-lied.

Well, he _had_ looked, somewhat. And when he hadn't found Ludwig anywhere, he was a bit guilty that he had almost been relieved.

Not bumping into this alarming new Ludwig had been a relief.

He was ashamed of himself.

"What did you want to do today?" he finally asked, and Ludwig glanced toward the window.

He followed with his eyes over to the glass doors that led out to the dilapidated garden, and noticed that the day was already promising, cloudy and mild. "Ah." He pulled himself to his feet, and sighed.

He didn't really feel like engaging in Ludwig's outdoor adventures, not really, but asked dutifully, "Did you want some company?"

Ludwig only stared at him, quiet and unmoving, and he shifted again.

Such restlessness that Ludwig brought.

"...or maybe I'll just make breakfast, instead."

Pulling himself upright, he turned weary feet and headed to the kitchen, knowing (though he could not hear) that Ludwig was following him. But when he stepped through the threshold, he paused, and couldn't help but shake his head.

Everything was already made.

"Well, looks like I fell short again," he said to himself, pushing his glasses up his nose. "When did you have time to do all of this, anyway?"

Ludwig really _was_ like a ghost.

No response, and a chair scraped against the wooden floor as Ludwig sat himself down silently at the table.

Ludwig just sat there, listless.

Limbo.

...this wasn't Ludwig.

It wasn't.

And this whole thing was starting to test his patience, and it was with great intent that he followed suit, plopping down into his chair and pulling a mug of coffee before him.

His head hurt.

The kitchen was filled with an awkward silence, and Roderich finally whispered, a bit testily, "So. When are you going to start talking to me?"

As expected, no answer.

He looked up, meeting Ludwig's calm, blank eyes.

No emotion.

Blank.

"Well?"

Maybe if he could just keep eye contact long enough, Ludwig would break...

Without answering, Ludwig stirred his own coffee, and then, purposefully, looked away.

Goddammit.

So much for that.

Elusive. Evasive.

Blank.

So _blank_.

Like a sheet of paper with no writing.

Ludwig was unreadable.

Sighing in exasperation, and maybe being more childish than was appropriate, Roderich slammed his cup down and picked up a fork, trying to finish his breakfast as quickly as possible, to free himself from this awkward and unnerving atmosphere. He made his movements brash and angry, if only to try to draw some kind of reaction from silent Ludwig.

Ludwig hated rudeness.

Ludwig hated when others were angry at him.

But there was nothing.

Not a word.

He couldn't _handle_ this.

Such things required patience, and he had never had much of _that_, and this Ludwig was gnawing at him like a thorn in the side.

He should have been more patient.

But, God help him, it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up when Ludwig stared at him with that fixed gaze.

His mind was starting to flood with awful thoughts that should not have been there, but...

But some deep, buried part of him was almost starting to wish that Ludwig had just stayed with Gilbert.

Let Gilbert try to break through this thick fog.

What an awful thought.

Giving up on Ludwig for something that was _his_ fault.

He was as bad as Gilbert.

They ate in silence, silverware scraping porcelain, and Roderich was so absorbed in himself and his dark, mottled thoughts that he almost didn't notice that Ludwig had stopped eating, and he barely heard the whispered, "Why didn't you tell me?"

The fog was broken by a moment of sunlight.

He started, looking up so fast that he barely saved his mug from toppling.

Had Ludwig _spoken_?

"W-what?"

Ludwig's ice-blue eyes were boring into his own, and he said, louder, "Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell me the truth? If I had known, all along, that I'm just a..."

He trailed off and Roderich, ignoring his words and the look of despair, fell back, elated.

"You're talking! You're really! Really speaking to me! I'm so..._happy_."

He felt a smile forming on his face, but Ludwig only seemed serious and almost agitated, and added, as Roderich beamed away, "Why did you let me believe that I had a family?"

...oh.

There was another terrible moment of silence, in which Ludwig broke Roderich's gaze and looked away, hands twisting in his lap in a moment of anxiety.

The air was tense, and Roderich's happiness fell into guilt, gone as quickly as it had come.

He didn't need to ask what Ludwig was talking back. Hadn't Gilbert said, after all, that he had told Ludwig _everything_?

Carefully, and with a hint of tentativeness, Roderich finally said, gently, "Just because I didn't tell you the truth, doesn't mean you don't have a family."

Ludwig looked back up at him, and the look of agony on his face made Roderich's heart hurt.

Such things...

He wasn't meant for these kinds of situations.

Ludwig needed reassurance.

He tried to give it.

He carried on, lowly, "Erszébet loved you like a son, I know she did. Doesn't that make her family? And Gilbert... Whatever I can say about him, I know that he loved you too. Just because he's not blood, does that make him any less of a brother?"

It was almost embarrassing to say, but it was true, wasn't it?

Blood was blood.

It was the people that cared about you that mattered in the end.

People that exposed their necks to wolves to ensure you were taken care of.

That was family.

Those who _loved_ you. Not those who had born you.

He could see Ludwig swaying between emotions, and hoped he could break through.

If he could just make Ludwig _see_.

He was just Ludwig.

That was all. Nothing more, nothing less. Who had ever cared who he really was or where he had come from?

"But," Ludwig suddenly murmured, his pessimistic personality taking over, like it always did, "How can they love me? They don't even know who I am."

Why did everything have to be like this? Thinking of these things and seeing Ludwig's pain made him feel so sick.

He couldn't handle this.

"They know who you are, Ludwig."

"But," Ludwig persisted, bowing his head in dejection as he sighed. "They _don't_. They don't know me. You don't know me. Hell, _I_ don't even know who I am."

Roderich's felt himself squirming in his chair, agitated and struggling for comforting words.

Oh, he had never been meant for this.

Losing his temper was so much easier.

"They do. You're Ludwig. You're just..._Ludwig_."

How else could he say it?

What did Ludwig need to hear?

What did he _want_?

Apparently, nothing that Roderich had offered.

"But I'm _not_!" Ludwig cried, and threw himself from his chair, knocking it back onto the floor. "I'm _not_ Ludwig! That was never my name! That was just something you two gave me, wasn't it? What if that was never my _name_? What if my name was Claus, or Rudolf, or Otto, or...or..." He broke off, covering his face with his palm and moaning, miserably, "Gilbert lied. _You _lied to me."

Roderich, frozen in place, could only hang his head, and sigh.

Liar.

Yeah, he'd lied.

He was _good_ at lying.

Damn good.

He got _paid_ to lie on a daily basis.

He got paid to fool others.

He earned respect and a high place in society on how well-honed his deception skills were. On how well he could manipulate others. On how well he take shit and spin it into gold.

But he hadn't ever meant to lie to Ludwig.

It had just happened.

_Oh_.

He was so _tired_.

And it would be so _easy_, just to stay silent and let the stubborn son of a bitch believe what he wanted to believe. It would be so easy just to get up and walk out and leave Ludwig to suffer in his anxiety. Too easy. He almost didn't _want _to take the extra effort to reassure him, the extra time to _talk_ to him.

What good would it do?

He raised his eyes, wearily, when Ludwig staggered back against the counter, and moaned, "You should have just left me in Italy."

You should have just left me to die, was what Ludwig was really saying.

Selfish.

"How could I?" he began, pulling himself from his own depression so that he could deal with Ludwig's, "How could I do that? How would I have lived with myself?" He pushed his chair back and stood, weariness blazing up into agitation.

Dumb Ludwig.

"How could I tell Gilbert that I had given up on you? And how would Erszébet have looked at me, when she found out?"

Ludwig shook his head, so _stubborn_, and whispered, "They'd all be better off without me."

That was enough.

"Oh, _stop it_," he snapped, and stomped his foot. "Just stop it!"

His patience had gone.

Ludwig looked up at him, pale eyes bright from above dark circles.

It was the harshest tone of voice he had ever used when speaking to Ludwig, and it seemed to gather his attention, so he carried on. "You think the world revolves around _you_? Do you think that everyone else could just go on like nothing had happened? If you die, you die, and that's fine for _your _problems, but what about everyone left behind? Did you think about _that_?"

The kitchen was eerily silent.

But when he started...

Hard to stop.

His voice was rising steadily, as he finally lost control of his temper, and he reached out blindly, knocking a full mug of coffee onto the floor. The shatter of porcelain satisfied him and his anger, and he continued, "Or are you really that selfish? I thought you could think for yourself, but you wound up taking after Gilbert after all! You're just _like_ him! Only the appearance is different. Maybe you're not really brothers, but you sure as hell act like it! I expect this kind of shit from him, but not from _you_! I thought the Ludwig I knew was _considerate_, and _rational_, and..."

The Ludwig he'd known.

He _missed_ that Ludwig.

It was like a knife in his gut, and his fury weakened as if someone had thrown a bucket of water on it, and he trailed off as Ludwig stared blankly back at him.

Even now, no meaningful response.

Dropping his head, Roderich finally sighed, "Maybe I was wrong about you."

It would have been worth the terrible, thick silence if Ludwig had only responded. If he had whispered, or hit him, or cried, or shouted, or even if he could have merely sent him a resentful glare, it would have been _worth_ it. All of it.

But Ludwig only took a step forward, and dropped fluidly down to his knees.

For a crazy moment, Roderich thought he was going to beg forgiveness.

But that was ridiculous; Ludwig begged no one.

No one.

Not even God.

And, sure enough, he did not open his mouth and utter words of pleading, instead reaching silently forward and gathering the shards of the shattered cup into his pale palms. His expression was as blank as his eyes, and Roderich relented at last, a little embarrassed at his outburst.

Even though he had meant every word.

"Leave it. I'll clean it up."

He knelt down when Ludwig ignored him, clutching the porcelain tightly within his hands and staring at the floor with a furrowed brow.

"Here," he offered. "Set it down. I'll get the broom."

For a moment, Ludwig paused, and then he shook his head, whispering almost maliciously, "What are you going to do? Ha. Glue it back together?" He scoffed, and added, as he carried on picking up shards, "Stop holding onto damaged goods. Get over it."

The words stung.

"That's enough."

Another shard, and he lost his patience, as he always did.

"Stop it," he barked, and took Ludwig's hands within his own, forcing them open with too much zeal, as his knuckles cracked in protest. The broken porcelain fell to the floor with a faint clatter, and there was a tense silence as his fingers dug into Ludwig's hands with enough force to leave bruises.

He hadn't meant to hurt him.

But, Christ almighty, why did he have to be so goddamn _stubborn_?

"Stop," he said, when Ludwig stared down at his hands with pursed lips. "You'll cut yourself."

But he already had, and dots of crimson began to rise up against the pale skin of his palms.

But Ludwig stared back at Roderich unfazed nonetheless, serious and unmoving and apparenly unfeeling.

Drops on the floor.

Apathetic.

Drip, drip.

Roderich had known all along, years and years ago, that there was something obviously _different_ about Ludwig. Quiet and reserved and a little moody, he'd always been a little odd, compared to others that he knew. But even with all of those passively dreary qualities, Ludwig had still smiled, and had always talked, and had never had a malicious bone in his body.

And for all of his quiet moods, Roderich had still seen immediately that the Ludwig that had come back from the trenches was not the same one that had left Vienna. They weren't necessarily immense changes, but they were there all the same.

Quietness had turned into solemness.

Self-reliance had turned into antisociality.

Pessimism had turned into apathy.

And Ludwig had turned into a shadow.

It had been better at the beginning, when Roderich had assumed that these new tendencies would retreat in a short period of time, and that before long Ludwig would be trailing behind him as he always had. That everything would go back to normal. That Ludwig would start smiling again.

But now, staring into pools of ice-blue completely devoid of any emotion, he realized that maybe, just maybe, he was in over his head.

This Ludwig would not go back by himself.

It would not be a few weeks, a month, a year, as he had so naïvely imagined.

It couldn't _ever_ be the same.

And it was his fault.

The thought of having lost his only remaining companion was too much.

Too much.

None of this had ever been Ludwig's fault.

He was to blame.

"I'm _sorry_," he finally moaned, as everything came rushing up like a tidal wave, and he brought Ludwig's hands upward, grasping them firmly as he placed his forehead against them in a desperate search for forgiveness. "I didn't mean... I just want everything to go back to the way it was before. I just want you to come _back_. I want everything to be the same."

"That can't happen, Roderich," Ludwig whispered almost dreamily, and freed himself, standing. "Let the past go. Forget it ever happened."

"Oh," he spat back, hauling himself upright clumsily, "like _you_ have? Because you've forgotten it all so _goddamn _well, haven't you?"

It was harsh, but true.

Maybe he was a hypocrite, but he hated it even more when others were. He hated being chided for things that others did too. Even from Ludwig.

But when Ludwig turned his head, averting his eyes, Roderich clenched his fists at his sides and tried to bite down on his ill-temper and steady the racing of his heart.

For Ludwig, he needed to be calm.

Calm.

He could be calm.

"I don't want to fight with you, Ludwig," he finally said, in a much softer voice, as he reached up to run hands through his hair to keep their shaking hidden. "I didn't mean to argue with you. I don't want do this. That's not what I brought you here for."

A silence.

Ludwig looked at him through cool eyes, and lifted up his chin.

A soft whisper.

"Then what _did _you want?"

A burst of fright.

His hands fell back down to his side.

What he _wanted_?

Ha.

He couldn't tell Ludwig what he wanted. He had tried that once already, and it had bombed.

He couldn't say it again.

"I wanted..."

He _wanted_ to say it.

He did. Oh, God, did he ever.

But he froze up, unable to say those words for fear of, well...

Many things.

So many things could go wrong.

So many disappointments.

Ludwig might have laughed at him, and that would have broken his heart, and then killed him.

He deflected.

"It doesn't matter what I wanted," he finally managed. "All that matters is that you're safe here."

But his flailing and fumbling had had more of an effect on strange Ludwig than his anger had.

Ludwig was looking at him now. Not that fixed stare.

Ludwig was _looking_ at him. Seeing him.

Tilting his head like a dog and his brow high, Ludwig met his gaze.

A curiosity there.

Not blankness.

"Am I?" Ludwig inquired, strangely. A thoughtful hand flew up to his chin as Roderich squirmed. "Am I any safer here than I was in Berlin? Am I safer with you than I was with Gilbert?"

Ludwig's cool voice was alarming perceptive, and the way he was looking him up and down was alarming.

He was being analyzed.

Ludwig was _analyzing_ him.

It frightened him.

Ludwig might have suspected...

Ludwig might have known.

The thought was mortifying.

"You know," Ludwig carried on, when Roderich kept silent, "I don't want to fight, either. I know that you did everything for my own good, but I heard a lot of that from Gilbert too—"

"I'm not like him," he interjected, quickly and enthusiastically. "I'm not! I would never hurt you like that! Everything I've ever done has just been to make sure that you're taken care of! I'd do anything for you, I _really_ would. I would keep you by my side every second, if I could. I love—"

He broke off his tirade in mortification, as Ludwig caught his gaze with a certain knowing.

A calm question.

"What did you say?"

Oh, _God_, he could have keeled over dead.

Idiot.

Fuckin' idiot was what he was.

"Nothing," he managed to grumble, and turned away as his face drained of color. "F-forget it." Desperate for an out, he glanced up at the clock and feigned worry. "I'm going to be late," he said, and cleared his throat, heading for the exit.

"Finish what you were saying," Ludwig demanded from behind, but he was already scrambling for his coat.

"I've got to go," he cried, and ran out in a fit of cowardice, leaving Ludwig to stare curiously at the door long after it had closed.

Coward.

* * *

"Sir?"

The knock on the door barely even registered, and when Roderich, head rested precariously on a stack of papers and muttering away to himself, failed to respond, the handle began to turn.

"Sir?"

"_What_?" he groaned irritably, as his secretary slid inside, shutting the door behind her. He did not look at her, but he imagined the look on her face was either that of amusement or deep, resentful disappointment. He imagined the latter, actually, and in his mind he could hear her grumbling to herself later, 'how that man still has a job when all he does is mope all day and I've been here since six in the morning' yada, yada, yada.

Eh.

He was certainly still on too much of an adrenaline high to keep his mind as professional as his suit.

The way Ludwig had looked at him kept him from focusing.

"What is it that you require?"

"Parliament is—"

"Let me guess," he interrupted, less than politely. "They're sending me to a friendly albeit hesitant country for a long, involved talk in why they should be joining our elite Central Powers for God and Glory."

"Yes, sir," she responded, quickly and humorlessly.

"_Excellent_. Where?"

He didn't care to know. Not particularly.

...Ludwig's eyes had been far too calm. Like he could have opened his mouth and hazard a guess at what exactly Roderich had meant to say.

He wasn't sure whether or not that was a good thing.

"Varna."

He couldn't help but perk up, meeting her eyes as he lifted his head from his forgotten papers. He hadn't expected _that_, he would admit.

Something different.

He ran it over in his mind, straightening up into his chair.

And it sat rather well him.

For once.

"Varna, huh?" he drawled, clasping his hands on the desk in front of him. "Well, that just has everything doesn't it? A quiet beach city, intrigue, mystery, Russian spies and resistance fighters at every corner, the possibility of endless assassination attempts, sabotage, interception of private state mail, and all the while I get to play the refined, straight-laced foreigner," he smoothed his tie out in emphasis, "throwing myself into the public pool of interest and opinion. Fast-paced. I like the glamour. And I could use a beach getaway..."

The thought was enough to illicit long-forgotten feelings of youthfulness and recklessness. He had loved these sort of games years ago, before the start of the tension of war, and maybe being back in a frightening, exciting setting would take some of the stress off of his shoulders, not to mention bring Ludwig out of his slump. And the sea was always a plus.

He felt his spirits lifting, and the same warmth began to run through his veins as it had when he had been informed of his trip to Africa.

"But, sir," his assistant was quick to interrupt (always the buzz-kill, he thought bitterly), "Varna is—"

"Dangerous. I know." He rubbed his forehead in agitation. "Where can I go that _isn't_ dangerous?"

"_Well_..." Her face scrunched in serious thought, and he sighed, pulling himself from his seat as he grabbed his briefcase, barely able to suppress the eye roll that was threatening to come as he made for the door.

"That was rhetorical."

"Oh. Yes, sir. Of course, sir."

He was gone before she could carry on with her endless warnings, excited to hurry home and tell Ludwig he was taking him on another adventure.

After all, it had worked last time to open him up, hadn't it?

And there wasn't the invisible threat of malaria in Varna.

A blessing.

He was confident in himself again.

Looking forward to the future.

Excited.

And it felt _great_. Ha! Maybe he would even pass through Szeged on the way down, and show off to Erszébet how _well_ he was holding up without her.

To prove to her that he didn't need her.

That he could have a life without her.

That her leaving did _not_ stop his world.

That the dissolution of their marriage was not his downfall.

He didn't _need_ her.

He didn't.

He had Ludwig.

The trip home was quick, as exhilarated as he was, and when he opened the door, he was not surprised to see that Ludwig was still in the kitchen, sitting quietly at the table and staring off into space, unmoving and unhearing.

Lost in his head.

He was curious as to the thoughts that ran through the Ludwig's mind during these times, if any at all, but he had enough tact (surprisingly) not to ask. They were perhaps things he didn't want to know, anyway.

Setting his briefcase quietly on the floor, he came up from behind slowly and passed around, crossing into Ludwig's point of view (given that he could see at all when he was daydreaming) with intent. Before this fiasco of a war, he would have snuck up from behind, maybe even have jumped out at him, but that did not seem like a safe idea at present. If he surprised Ludwig now, he was liable to get decked, or worse.

Never sneak up on trained soldier.

"Ludwig?"

Standing before the blond, he waited patiently for his eyes to clear and focus.

It took only a minute for Ludwig to come down from the clouds and look up at him.

"Yes?" came the dreamy whisper.

"I have to go away," he said, abruptly.

He only used such brashness when he had something good in store.

Get Ludwig riled up, and spring it.

There was a thick silence, and for a strange, horrible moment, Ludwig fell back into his chair with a look of misery, and Roderich thought that he was going to burst into tears. Which would have quickly ruined the game.

But then it passed, and with a breath, Ludwig had gathered himself and his face fell back into an unreadable mask, as he eyed Roderich intensely.

"Don't make me go back to Berlin. I can't. I won't."

Shaking his head, Roderich scoffed. "I hardly imagine that I could make you do anything you don't want to do."

They watched each other, and oddly enough, it was Ludwig who broke the silence first.

"Are you leaving me here?"

Lure.

"Do you want stay here?"

Ludwig met his eyes, and shook his head.

Reel.

"Then, we'll go together. Would that be alright?"

Ludwig nodded.

It was simple and meaningful, and Roderich suppressed his sigh of relief, putting on an air of confidence.

Things were looking up.

He smiled for the rest of the day, even as he had to sift through many of _her_ things to gather up his own to prepare.

He was happy.

He let down his guard.

Like a fool.

But his luck was always up in the air.

Always.

And, almost predictably, he had barely gotten his suitcase together that night when there was a knock at the door.

He went to it automatically, assuming that it was just another diplomatic call, despite the late hour and the bad weather.

Another bad habit of his.

Assuming.

In the stress and emotional investment of having Ludwig here, he had quickly and foolishly forgotten that Gilbert had said that he was coming.

Why couldn't he remember such important things?

"Yes?" he said, pulling the door open carelessly, though quietly.

In an instant he was struck with an unfavorable déjà vu, as Gilbert (once again) stood in his doorframe.

A very unpleasant experience.

But the atmosphere was different this time; there wasn't that electricity of absolute resentment, or that insufferable, pulsating air of supreme confidence that Gilbert always emanated.

He looked unkempt, exhausted, and almost sheepish, with dirty clothes and wet hair from the rainfall.

Like a sad, lost dog.

Roderich could not help but feel for him, if only a little. After all, he had looked about the same just a week ago.

"Gilbert," he acknowledged, stiffly, and after a hesitation, he held the door open to allow him in, mutt that he was.

Gilbert stepped inside tentatively, seemingly surprised at his placidity.

But in these times...

Fighting was another exhaustion he simply didn't need.

"Roderich." Gilbert looked around a little, and then raised his hand up to his dripping hair. "Sorry. I'm ruining your rug. Ha. Know how you are 'bout that kinda stuff..."

Shaking his head, Roderich shut the door behind them, even though it felt far too strange to stand there together like this. "It's alright."

It was awkward for them to be around each other, but the situation was difficult and complex, and Gilbert wasted no time, asking eagerly, "Where is he?"

"Asleep."

"Can I see him?"

He wanted to say 'no, you can't, ever again', but he didn't have the heart to crush Gilbert's hope, no matter the history between them, and could only nod and lead the way down the hall.

Besides, if there was a God, then Ludwig would do all the hope-crushing for him.

When he stopped before the door—the door to _his _room, but Gilbert didn't need to know that—Gilbert hesitated. "How has he been?" he asked, quietly and timidly.

The tone was unusual for Gilbert, and made him seem strangely vulnerable.

But not pitiable.

"As well as he can be, I suppose." Roderich looked at the door reluctantly, but stepped back nonetheless. "I'll...leave you alone."

Ludwig would not relent.

He was sure of it.

Let Gilbert see him.

He'd only be turned away.

With that somewhat bitter thought in his head, he turned his back and began to walk away, but Gilbert's voice behind caught his ear.

"Roderich."

He paused, but did not look back.

"...thank you."

...ha.

Well.

Unexpected.

There was more meaning behind it that could have ever been put into words, and Roderich only shrugged one shoulder in acknowledgement, resuming his walk. He didn't like the note of gloominess in Gilbert's voice, as though he were only a shadow, nor did he like the thought of Gilbert being alone with Ludwig, and actually he didn't like Gilbert in general, but he would not deny him a moment of fragile happiness.

Just this once.

* * *

Silence.

Darkness.

Stillness.

What could he _say_?

Gilbert almost hadn't opened the door, considering the possibility of fleeing when Roderich wasn't looking. After all, how could he face Ludwig now, for the first time since he had said all of those horrible things? How could he look him in the eye and try to explain himself?

Ha.

He couldn't, really, but Roderich had said that Ludwig was asleep, hadn't he?

For that reason alone, he was able to step inside the dark room, and shut the door gently behind him.

Because it would have been _enough_, if nothing eslse, just to see Ludwig, and know he was alright.

Seeing was enough.

Flashes of lightning lit up the room in short intervals.

The room was quiet.

Indeed, Ludwig was asleep, resting on his back, the cover half off. In what little light the storm offered, Gilbert could see that his sleep was not peaceful, as he turned every so often, brow furrowed.

But he made no sound.

Silent suffering.

Like usual.

Stepping lightly, Gilbert found the edge of the bed and lowered himself down, hovering over his erstwhile brother with a sense of gravity and restlessness. It felt _strange_, to see him now that everything was so different.

Strange, and sad.

He was ashamed to be here.

No confidence.

Just vulnerability.

Hated the feeling.

He had never wanted any of this to happen, just because he reacted so badly to jealousy and change. Just because he was a great goddamn idiot, who couldn't ever think before he spoke.

It hadn't been Ludwig's fault, he knew that, and the jittery feeling in his stomach was making him feel nauseas.

He had fucked up.

Not Ludwig.

He had handled it like a child, leaving Ludwig to be the adult.

Who could ever blame Ludwig for stalking out on him?

He had deserved it.

Some brother he was. Some guardian.

Some _man_.

Oh.

Did Ludwig still _love_ him?

He had been sober and clean since he had called Roderich, since the calamity of Ludwig's letter, on the _slim_ chance that it might come down to this meeting, on the frail hope that Ludwig would still be alive when Roderich located him.

He had wanted to be in his right mind when he faced Ludwig again.

But God, it had been _so_ hard. So hard.

Withdrawal.

Hell on earth.

The feel of death's hand on his shoulder.

Sleepless nights huddled up in a ball on the bathroom floor, shivering and writhing and vomiting, barely aware of his surroundings and feeling like his veins were pumping fire, not blood.

The worst days of his life.

But he'd done it all the same.

It was worth it.

"Ludwig?"

He knew now that it was worth it.

But maybe it wouldn't be worth it to Ludwig.

His worst fear.

Ludwig's rejection.

Reaching out gingerly, he placed his palm against Ludwig's forehead, longing for any kind of contact.

He remembered that Ludwig had been a heavy sleeper (ha, oh man, oh God, those great memories of life before all of this!), and so he was taken aback when a hand suddenly flew up like lightening and gripped his wrist painfully, and he realized that he was staring into alert blue eyes.

He had forgotten.

Ludwig was a soldier now.

A trained killer.

No more heavy sleeping.

He fell silent in the face of confrontation, and slowly, steadily, Ludwig released his wrist once he had recognized him.

He rubbed absently at his wrist as Ludwig stared up at him intensely.

A short silence.

Ludwig's head tilted to the side as he observed him through lidded eyes.

Gilbert had missed those eyes.

"Hey," he finally managed, and Ludwig twitched a bit at the sound of his voice.

...maybe not a good sign.

"What are you doing here?" Ludwig suddenly whispered, his voice rough and husky with sleep, and Gilbert could only shrug a shoulder. Not an answer. Ludwig called it. "Don't know? Then go home," he griped, and rolled onto his side, facing away.

Ludwig turned away.

Gilbert's spirits fell.

Not what he had wanted.

"I'm...I'm sorry," he finally mumbled, weakly. "I'm _sorry_. I know I shouldn't've come, but... I really wanted to see you."

He would have done anything in the world to see Ludwig.

If only for a moment.

Ludwig was not sold.

"Why?"

He could not help but feel a little uneasy at the smooth, droll voice, as though he were an item of painfully minimal interest.

It stung a bit.

"I miss you. I wanted to tell you—"

"Hold that thought," Ludwig interrupted a bit rudely, and sat up, refusing to meet his eyes. "I remembered I don't care. I really, really don't. Please believe me when I say that I could not _possibly_ care less about what you have to say. Now. If you do not mind, I was sleeping. Please get out."

Awful words.

The stab of hurt was undeniable.

He could have _died_.

Died.

Resisting the urge to break down and cry, Gilbert shook his head, stubbornly, and said, "I can't go, not until I tell you that I'm—"

Maybe he pressed too far.

Too soon.

Too much.

Ludwig snapped at him.

Turned like a wolf.

"_I don't care_," Ludwig screeched, and this time he bolted upright, leaving the bed behind in two great strides as he lunged for the door. He nearly had the handle in his palm when Gilbert somehow caught up with his long legs and grabbed him, shoving him back against the door with enough force to pin him, but with the thoughtfulness of being gentle.

He didn't want to hurt him.

He just wanted to make him _understand_.

Sometimes, with Ludwig, force was really the only way to get through to him.

Ludwig struggled against him, but Gilbert had always been stronger, especially when fueled by continuing withdrawal and emotion and aggression.

He pushed him back harder, grabbing Ludwig's arm at the last second as he had raised it with the intention to punch.

And that startled him a little.

Ludwig had never aimed to wound him physically before.

They'd never fought, not like _that_.

But he had no doubt that Ludwig had been a few inches from breaking his nose.

How things had deteriorated.

"Listen to me!"

"Get off."

"Not until you _listen_," he hissed, agitated and irritated that Ludwig still refused to hold still and pay attention.

Just struggling.

"What _is_ it? Christ, _Gilbert_, is there something you left out last time? A follow up? I don't need it. Get _off_ me!"

Ludwig's voice was steadily rising, and for a moment, Gilbert had to resist the urge to reach up and cover Ludwig's loud mouth with his hand before Roderich heard the commotion and came running.

Goddammit.

The urge to shake him was growing.

Maybe hit his head back against the door to stun him a little.

Anything to get him to stand still.

"Are you gonna listen? Or am I gonna haveta hurt ya a little?"

Not an empty threat.

He'd never been afraid to smack people around to get his way.

Ludwig glared up at him, and took in a great breath, and finally fell still.

It was enough.

If Ludwig wouldn't engage in conversation, that was alright. Gilbert did not need a dialogue; he only needed for Ludwig to hear what he wanted so badly to get off of his chest.

He slackened his iron grip a little.

"I know that I fucked you over, I _know_ I did! But I didn't _mean_ those things I said. You know that I always say stupid shit that I don't really mean. You've always known that. Jesus, Ludwig, how many years have we known each other? You _know_ me! And I know that I didn't do everything right, maybe I didn't do anything right, but... But I _never_ lied when I said that I loved you. I just..."

He just...

What?

He just _what_?

Lost it, like always?

Wanted to cause waves?

Wanted to make Ludwig feel bad because he had?

Ludwig just stared at him.

He scoffed at himself, and shook his head as aggression dulled down into misery.

"God! You know, I don't even know what the fuck I was thinkin'. When I thought of you being here with _him _and not with me... I was afraid that you loved him more, and I said those things to hurt you, because I didn't want you to leave. I know it's stupid and selfish, but... I thought that if I could make you hate yourself, maybe you'd hate me a little less."

He fell silent, and bowed his head.

That was probably the most honest thing he'd ever said in his entire miserable life.

And finally, after a great, heavy silence, Ludwig spoke.

"You're an _idiot_," he finally murmured, deep voice scratchy and low, and Gilbert's hope dropped.

"I know," he responded, dejected. "I know I am. You know that, too. I've always been an idiot. Don't know how ya put up with me."

Ludwig was quiet for a moment, and then sighed.

"At least you can admit it. ...oh, _Gilbert_. I never hated you. I only wanted for you to tell me the truth. You couldn't _ever_ do that, even when I came back."

His heart hurt.

How badly he had fucked such a good thing up.

Ludwig had come back.

Ludwig had given him a second chance.

He'd blown it.

"I thought... You'd think I was a loser. All that time I spent tryin' to make you love me so much. How could I tell you that I was just a con?" He laughed, humorlessly, weakly. "You were always so disappointed in me. I could tell, just by the way you looked at me. I was a failure. I let you down. And when you came back, I still couldn't tell you the truth, because... I was afraid."

"Of what?"

"Losing you."

"I came back," Ludwig shot back, sternly. "I came _back_! Why would you have lost me?"

Silence.

What could he say?

'Oh, yeah, you thought we were brothers, so I couldn't tell you that I'm in love with you 'cause you'd think I was a creep.'

Hardly.

"Well?"

He faltered under Ludwig's impossibly intense eyes, and finally released his grip, taking a step back.

Fleeing, as usual.

"It doesn't matter."

"No," Ludwig said, and pushed himself off the door, face and stance very stern. "Hey, no way! You said you wanted to tell me. Now _tell_ me. Once you leave here, you won't get another chance."

He understood the words; after this, Ludwig did not want to see him again.

He couldn't blame him.

For all he'd done.

Ludwig was better off without him.

"Say it, Gilbert! For God's sake! Just say it! What could it possibly be? Huh? What could possibly be worse than _any_ of the shit you've put me through already?"

Ludwig's patience was waning.

He had nearly stomped his foot.

Seeing Ludwig angry...

His curse.

That's really all he could make Ludwig do, was shout.

"Tell me!"

Well.

He'd probably never see Ludwig again after this.

Now or never.

He took a great, deep breath, and for the first time in his life with _that_ intention, he said it.

"I—I love you."

Ludwig's brows furrowed in confusion, and he waved it off easily. "You've always said that."

_Oh_.

Ludwig didn't understand.

"No, I mean..."

How could Ludwig ever understand?

Impossible.

The whole thing.

It wouldn't ever work.

Ludwig hated him.

Frustrated and losing his nerve and feeling sick, Gilbert gave up altogether and grabbed the handle, ripping the door open in an attempt to flee, even as Ludwig tried to grab his arm.

"Wait! Why can't—just _say_ it, Gilbert! Say it!"

Frustration.

"I've _said_ it a thousand times," he cried, stomping his foot childishly as he whirled around and shoved angrily at Ludwig's chest.

Ludwig staggered back, but did not fall.

"A _thousand _goddamn times, and you just don't _get_ it! You don't _get_ it! I _love_ you!"

His voice was near the point of screaming, and somewhere in his mind he knew that Roderich surely heard him, but his attention was focused on Ludwig, who stared at him with wide eyes. He had to get this through Ludwig's thick skull, and _now_.

Now.

"How many different ways do you want me to say it? Christ! I _love_ you! _I am in love with you_! I don't know why you don't _get_ it! When you came back I was sure that you were finally startin' to get it, but no matter how many times I kept sayin' it, you just kept... And I..."

He broke off as Ludwig's eyes narrowed into a squint of disbelief, brow furrowed and lips pursed, and after a moment there was a breakthrough; comprehension finally dawned on his face, breaking through the shadows like the sun.

A quick, breathless, "_Oh_!"

_Finally! _

Christ.

Oh, _God_, _oh_ God, finally! Finally. Finally.

Ludwig understood.

A hand flew up to his mouth in an odd moment of insecurity.

Silence.

"I _love_ you," he repeated, more to himself, and he held his arms out at his sides, wearily. "Get it? I can't even... I love you. I really do. I'd've done anything for you. Anything you wanted. That's why I couldn't _stand_ having you here with _him_. I couldn't stand it."

Ludwig just stood there, and slowly, his hand fell back down, and his look was strange.

Thoughtfulness.

As though he were connecting dots in his mind.

It was a great burden off his chest, to finally have it in the open, and God almighty, Gilbert would have burst into tears if Ludwig had suddenly said, 'oh, well, sorry, it's just too weird'.

He couldn't bear rejection.

But Ludwig just stood there.

Gilbert's hope exploded like fireworks.

Oh, maybe this would be better than he had ever hoped for!

Emboldened, he took a step forward, and grabbed up Ludwig's cool hands within his own.

"Hey! You! You get it now, so why— Why don't'cha— I mean, don't you...you _know_! Oh, Ludwig, I love you so fuckin' much, I don't even know what to say to you, but I'll do anything you want me to! I'll say anything you want, if you just won't be _mad_ at me anymore! I can't stand to have you mad at me!"

Ludwig stared at him, his mouth opening and closing but no voice coming out.

Gilbert squeezed his hands in enthusiam that he was still surprised he had.

"Ludwig, don't you think... I mean, after everything we've done together, won't you come home? Come back with me! Please come back, I won't ever fuck up again, I _swear_ I won't! Let me take you back _home_! I love you."

Ludwig's face was flushed, and his stance strangely placid.

Passive.

No more aggression.

Oh, if Ludwig said 'yes' he wouldn't even know what to do with himself.

What a thought.

If Ludwig could just say, 'I love you, too'.

He ran thumbs over the tops of Ludwig's hands as the smile spread over his face.

The first in such a long time.

"Come home. Stay with me. I'll say it however many times you want me to! I love you!"

Ludwig was relenting. He could see it.

He was winning.

"Gilbert, I—"

"Well, now, this is truly _enlightening_," came a voice from behind, and Gilbert jumped in alarm, whipping around so fast that he nearly fell backwards.

Shock.

Roderich stood there behind him, arms crossed above his chest and face strangely blank.

But there was no mistaking the rigidness of his stance, nor the wrath in his gaze, nor the tapping of his foot.

"I trust you're wrapping up your visit," he added, voice tight and strained. "It's late. Ludwig and I have a long journey in the morning."

He stood aside, clearing a path and holding open the door in what was clearly an invitation to leave.

But his words had cut like a knife.

He turned to Ludwig, arms limp at his sides in sudden helplessness.

"You're leaving?" he asked, as his chest tightened and all hope once again shattered.

Ludwig just nodded, once, and lowered his eyes to the floor.

"Why? You'll be safer if you just come back home with me."

But now that Roderich was in the room, all of the progress he had made with Ludwig evaporated.

Roderich, it seemed, brought back bad memories of Gilbert.

How unfair.

Finally, Ludwig spoke.

"We tried that, Gilbert. I went back home. It didn't work. I'm going with Roderich, so that I can try to help him end this war. The faster the better. Don't forget I'm still a soldier. I'm just on reserve now. I have to go back if they call me. Could you handle that?"

He couldn't, Ludwig knew he couldn't, and, helpless and so frustrated, Gilbert turned back to Roderich and sputtered, "Where are you going?"

"None of your damn business," Roderich snapped back, and Gilbert felt his opportunities slipping away like sand.

He didn't want to lose Ludwig for a third time.

Not now.

Not when Ludwig _knew_.

What could he do?

He couldn't bear passing the rest of his life without Ludwig at his side.

He'd die.

"I want to go."

"_What_?"

They looked at him, Roderich in astonishment and Ludwig curiously, and he ignored Roderich's sudden, coarse laughter.

"Y-you! Ha! Oh, oh Gilbert, this is no time for joking."

But he was serious.

So serious.

"Let me come with you."

Roderich gawked at him.

"You've _lost_ it, you know, you really have. You can't come! Of course you can't! Get out!"

With that, Roderich turned and walked off into the hall, and Gilbert chased after him, Ludwig on his heels.

He was determined.

"Roderich, listen! _Please_!"

"_Goodbye_," Roderich said simply, and held open the front door.

Rain fell outside.

"Gilbert," Ludwig added, quietly, "You can't come. You need to go back to Berlin. Even... Even if you could come along, you can't stay at the embassy."

"That's alright! I can stay somewhere else. Nearby!"

"Gilbert, please."

"It's not possible," Roderich said in exasperation, holding his forehead. "Go back to Berlin."

Oh, no! _No_! He had been so close.

"Roderich! Let me come along," he pleaded, desperately. "I can help out, really, I can! I could keep him safe, while you're gone, I could—"

"Stop it, Gilbert," Ludwig whispered, shaking his head. "You can't come."

Sometimes, he wondered if fate itself was against him.

"Ludwig, _please!_ Don't make me stay behind. I don't want you to go away again. Come home!"

He was grasping at straws. He had finally _said_ it, after so long, and Ludwig _knew _now, so why couldn't he stay with him?

"I have to go. You can't come with me. But. I _understand_ now, everything you did." A stir of emotion suddenly flitted through Ludwig's pale eyes, something he couldn't place, and he added, "And now it's my turn to protect you. You'll be safe in Berlin, and maybe, when the war is over..."

Ludwig trailed off, and the unspoken possibilities held Gilbert's tongue, and he bowed his head as he was led to the door.

Maybe.

Ludwig's hand brushed his shoulder as he was led out onto the porch.

"Go home."

He was losing this battle, yes, but by everything he had, he made an oath to himself that this would not be how he was defeated. He did not give up what he wanted so easily.

Never.

Especially to Roderich.

He'd bring the entire world down before he ever gave up to Roderich.

He'd burn everything to the ground before he ever let go of Ludwig.

He couldn't stand to lose.

"Be careful," Ludwig whispered, close to his ear, and when he went back into the house, Roderich stepped forward to shut the door in Gilbert's face.

Before it slammed, Gilbert raised his head, catching the Roderich's gaze.

The feeling he had then...

He could barely describe it.

Maybe he looked a little crazy, maybe he was smiling a little too widely for the situation, maybe he was breathing a little too heavily through his mouth, and maybe he _was_ crazy.

But he would never let Roderich win.

Not ever.

He'd burn the world first.

"You can't leave _me_ behind," he swore breathlessly, and, savoring the look of trepidation that crossed Roderich's visage, he turned and staggered out into the night air, the smile never faltering even as the door slammed behind him.

This was _not _over.


	17. July 15, 1915

Chapter 16

**July 15****th****, 1915**

"I love the sea."

Above the flat, swaying fields, the sky was a bright, endless blue, tufts of white clouds dotting the horizon gently; it could easily have been a scene from one of the many paintings that lined the embassy walls back home. The breeze from the sea was sweet and warm, and Roderich glanced briefly at Ludwig, who was hanging his head out of the window, like an excited dog, inhaling the salty air with contentment as the car moved along at a lazy pace.

"Me too," Roderich supplied, and the corners of his mouth threatened to turn up into a smile as he looked ahead.

The road before them was even, straight, and readily seen.

Which was exactly how Roderich liked it.

If only life were so easy, he lamented silently.

Or, at the very least, as quiet and uneventful as the trip to Bulgaria had been. The train ride from Vienna had been almost surprisingly smooth, even the last leg of the trip where they had passed an entire day traveling through the belligerent Serbia. Ludwig had been anxious, alert eyes scanning to and fro through the window, and he had even asked, warily, 'What if they stop the train?'

Roderich had laughed him off, and assured him, confidently, 'They can't. I have immunity to all hindrances and searches, remember?' And indeed, a diplomatic seal on the front of the car was the only thing protecting them from unfriendly forces.

This had comforted the German, and when they finally reached Sofia, he had been the first off the train, drinking in his new surroundings with eagerness. This rare excitement was the reason that he had refused the offered driver, and had taken the car himself. It was a day's trip to Varna, and he wanted to be alone with Ludwig the whole while.

Ludwig did not seem to care, happy enough to take the passenger seat, and Roderich tried to fight off that nagging voice in the back of his head that was accusing him of wanting Ludwig alone because he was becoming increasingly possessive. Add to that, he had to fight off the simultaneous tightening in his stomach that accused him of fleeing Vienna so rapidly to ensure that Gilbert was getting left well behind.

It was ridiculous, but he caught himself looking back every so often to make sure they weren't being followed. What was it about that reckless, ominous look in Gilbert's eyes that always made him so nervous? The Prussian was little more than just threatening talk...

Wasn't he?

He shook his head to himself and tried to focus. It didn't matter. Gilbert couldn't follow them; he did not know where they were going. And the embassy would not give out such sensitive information.

They were safe.

Over the plain, the sea was rising steadily to visibility, and Ludwig pushed himself back down into his seat restlessly.

"How long will we be here?"

"Until Bulgaria joins the alliance, I suppose," he responded, breezily, and Ludwig sighed to himself.

"I'd like to stay here forever."

"Then hope I'm an awful negotiator."

Ludwig turned to look at him, and Roderich's heart soared when the blond broke into a smile, the first one that he had seen in years.

His own smile lasted for only a minute before it faltered in uncertainty.

How could he be sure that Ludwig's exhilaration and high spirits were because of this relocation? What if that breathless look of elation was there because of Gilbert's words? His heart raced in anxiety; he could not bear the thought.

"I'm glad that you came with me," he suddenly said, too forcefully, and Ludwig only continued to smile over him, then refocusing his attention to the road.

His silence was perturbing.

The rest of the drive to the embassy was laden with silence. Not uncomfortable, an yet somehow awkward. Ludwig seemed oblivious to his internal torment, and leapt from the car the second it pulled up to the embassy. Roderich followed suit, coming to a halt behind him as an attendant came down the steps for their bags.

Staring up at his new lodgings, Ludwig placed his hands on his hips thoughtfully.

It was...cozy.

That was the nicest description that Roderich could come up with. It certainly wasn't the elegant, intimidating marble of the historic Vienna embassy, or even the charming, simple timber that had greeted them in Africa. What stood before them was a building of weathered stone, chipped here and there as climbing vines and roses were slowly beginning their hostile takeover. The roof was certainly past its prime (probably leaking, he thought in disdain), and the lodgings of the ambassador appeared to be directly beside the entrance, perhaps his worst fear. He stared in awe at the open curtains that let the entire street see into the private bedroom. Christ almighty, he could see the current ambassador's wife searching through her closet for forgotten items to put in her suitcase. He turned away, in respect for privacy.

What happened to the days of discretion, where the quarters were on the second floor, or at least tucked safely away in the back? Where were the high wall to protect from prying eyes? And in such a dangerous city, where the Russian empire was sending countless spies and criminals in an attempt to discourage the country from saddling up with the Central Powers... He could not help but shudder at the thought of Ludwig standing where that woman stood now, and less friendly eyes watching him from the street.

The hedges and flowers out front were neatly groomed, almost too pretty to be sitting in front of this limestone nightmare, but not enough to distract from nor hide the windows.

He had opened his mouth to voice his opinion, but Ludwig beat him to the punch, and said, slowly and almost affectionately, "I like this embassy."

Roderich lost his voice, and Ludwig turned back to look at him as the attendant hauled their suitcases up to the door, adding, "It's almost...intimate."

Of course Ludwig liked this embassy. He had never had a taste for the elegant or extravagant like Roderich, and besides, he did not understand fully the dangers here. And as much as he liked hearing the word 'intimate' from Ludwig's mouth in reference to where they would soon be lodging, he could not help but disagree.

But he would let Ludwig have his moment for now, and besides, he could raise holy hell later on when the blond was out of earshot.

Biting his tongue, he nodded, and Ludwig turned back to examine further the building, pleased. They were finally making their first advances up the stairs when the door opened, and a hassled-looking man stepped out. He caught sight of them, and said, heavily, "I'm sorry, but the ambassador isn't quite together just yet. I must admit, we weren't expecting you until later this evening. If you could just wait in the lobby..."

Roderich immediately, uttered, "Of course," and could see Ludwig fidgeting out of the corner of his eye. He knew instinctively what Ludwig would rather do than sit in a cold, boring lobby, and followed up with, "Tell him to take his time. I think we'll take a quick tour of the city."

"Yes, sir."

He ducked back inside, and Roderich sighed, arms falling to his sides. He had no desire to poke around this God-forsaken city, truthfully, but Ludwig was popping up and down on his heels, looking around the streets expectantly.

"Have you ever been here before?"

"No," he replied, and tried to look on the bright side :

At least he would have wonderful company.

"Would you like to explore the downtown?" The buildings here were certainly historic enough to be called the downtown, that was certain. But, on second thought... "Or would you rather go down to the beach?"

Ludwig nodded quickly, and Roderich tried to gather his bearings. It was only a short walk down to the shore, but he preferred a wide, well-seen, open road rather than these small, pinched alley streets.

He saw one a distance down the road, and led the way, the strong breeze throwing his coat back behind him. Ludwig followed behind, and it took him a moment to realize that he could hear him. He glanced back over his shoulder, and Ludwig was looking around the buildings, taking no mind to guard his footsteps.

That was a good sign. He was relaxing.

"I've never been to a beach," he said, suddenly, and Roderich caught his eye as he fell into step at his side.

"Oh? I used to go every now and again," he intoned, wistfully, tucking his hands into his pockets. "When I was younger, I used to bribe a few of the old men in the parliament to send me to Barcelona." He smiled to himself, feeling Ludwig's eyes on him as he retreated into nostalgia. "I used to send out for cigars from Cuba, and for every box I gave them I got to stay there six months."

"You must have really liked it there."

"I did," he replied, and slowly, his smile waned. "I took Erszébet there, for our honeymoon. She liked to go down to the beach once the sun started to set." Ludwig stayed silent, and Roderich barely noticed that he had slowed his pace, as old memories made his heart ache. "I remember, the first night we were there, she was so excited that she dove into the waves, in her dress. Afterwards, she grabbed every shell she saw, thinking to take every one of them home. Even the broken ones. I stayed out with her...all night. Until the run rose the next morning. She was happy." He trailed off, thoughtfully, and then added, "_We _were happy..."

There was a thick silence, and he remembered clearly the beaming smile on Erszébet's face as the Barcelona sun had broken over the horizon.

"Did she take them home?"

He looked over at Ludwig, who had caught his eyes in an intense gaze.

"What?"

"The shells," he said, lowly. "Did she take them home?"

Roderich paused, and then whispered, "No. I made her leave them, because...we would go back one day. I never took her again."

A sudden roar startled him, and he realized that he had made it down to the edge of the shore without even realizing it, as the waves of the sea crashed into the beige sand. He had thought that seeing it would have heightened his mood, but now...

He only felt worse.

"It's alright to remember the past," Ludwig suddenly said, taking the first steps down onto the dry part of the sand. "Just don't try to live in it. That was my mistake."

He walked on, leaving Roderich to stare after him despondently. An ambiguous, if not powerful statement... It was comforting, a little, to know that at least there was someone else on this earth who was possibly as miserable as he was.

At least someone who could understand him...

Inhaling, he knelt down, instinctively removing his shoes and socks for fear of ruining them. Tucking them safely under his arm, he followed Ludwig down onto the shore and settled down onto the driest, cleanest patch of sand that he could find. He had almost expected that Ludwig would have removed his shirt by now to play in the water, but he only stared out into the horizon, still and silent.

The mood was damp, and disheartening.

When Ludwig had taken in his fill, he came back to Roderich's side and sat down next to him, heaving a sigh. Digging his hands into the sand, Roderich muttered, "Sorry. It wasn't my intention to be such a downer."

"Don't apologize."

Ludwig seemed calm and thoughtful, and Roderich, encouraged, tried to focus on other things. "Well, what do you think? The beach, I mean."

"It's pretty," Ludwig responded, quietly, and closed his eyes in the warm wind.

"It _is _a pretty place. It looks calm and still. But..." He shifted anxiously, and though he longed to speak of other things, it was important to set some ground rules as soon as possible. "It's deceitful. Bulgaria is on the fence right now. They only need a little convincing to join the war. But because it's so close to Russia, it's dangerous. Varna is a different city at night, and the officials here are almost all corrupt. The mobs buy them off. There are no prosecutions against the drug lords. There are Turk and Russian loyalists everywhere. There's not a place in this city outside of the embassy that is safe for us. That's why I need you to do everything I say while we're here. I'm not trying to be condescending. I know that you can take care of yourself, but... I worry."

He sighed, and shifted again restlessly.

"Just...promise me that you won't leave the house when I'm not there. Not for _anything_, understand? Even an emergency. You call _me _before anyone else. Will you promise me that?"

There wasn't an immediate response, and he looked over, and realized that Ludwig was not listening to him. He shook his head, sighing.

Dreamers...

Choosing to observe rather than speak again, he took in Ludwig's still form. Knees pulled up to his chest with folded arms rested above, he stared out into the sea listlessly, hair shining a fiery orange in the steadily setting sun. He seemed unfocused and yet serious, and Roderich had a nagging suspicion about what was running through his mind. He shuddered, despite the warmth of the sea.

Even though the blond had not addressed the _incident _(as he liked to call it) aloud, he knew that it was not possible that Ludwig had simply forgotten about it. You did not forget about declarations of love so easily, especially from someone like Gilbert...

And he! _He _had spent so long dancing around the idea of declaring love that he hadn't even seen Gilbert racing up from behind and towards the finish line. But how could he have possibly known that Gilbert's interests in Ludwig went so deep? It made him want to kick and scream in frustration; _those _words should have come from _his _lips. It should have been _him _that had shouted it so honestly, for all to hear.

Not Gilbert.

The first time that someone says 'I love you' will be the time that is never forgotten. Gilbert had gotten it in first, and Ludwig was probably thinking about it this very instant. Contemplating... Considering... Maybe even wishing...

What was even the point of trying now?

He wanted to vomit.

"You do a lot for me, don't you?" came a sudden, deep whisper from beside him, and, dragging himself from his stupor, he managed to shrug his shoulder nonchalantly as Ludwig's bright eyes bored into his own.

"Don't mention it," he mumbled, wearily.

"As much as you hate Gilbert, it never mattered to you that you had to go through him to see me. You could have just forgotten about me, but you didn't. I don't know why, though, I'm such a burden on you-"

"Don't say that," he interrupted, and turned his gaze to the rolling waves of the sea. "I couldn't imagine...doing _any _of the things I've done, without you. I'm never as happy as I am when you're with me... Everything that's happened, I'd do it all again, if I had to." He bowed his head abashedly, and muttered, "I didn't ever want you to leave. I know that I get so angry, sometimes, about Gilbert but it's just because... I don't know what I would do if you went away again..."

And with that, something inside of him broke, under years of stress and broken promises and terrible longing, and he did something that he had never done in his life:

He burst into tears.

Trying desperately to hold on to his dignity, he turned his head away and stifled any and all sounds of distress, allowing the hot tears to fall unchecked; wiping them away would alert Ludwig.

He was foolish to think that he could deceive the hawk-eyed Ludwig so easily.

"Are you alright?"

He couldn't speak for the effort, and only nodded. He had a horrible moment of fear, that Ludwig (meaning well) would reach out to him, try to speak to him, or touch him... If he did so, there would no longer be a way of upholding this endless façade of togetherness that he tried so hard to put forth every day. And if Ludwig tried, God forbid, to hug him, he would break down.

But nothing happened, and he felt the intensity of Ludwig's eyes leave him, as the blond returned his gaze undoubtedly to the roaring waves.

There was a thick silence, in which he struggled to keep himself from sniveling, and suddenly a soft, ghostly whisper caught his ear, "It's alright. I know it's hard, sometimes, to keep pretending. Don't hold it in. You'll feel better afterwards."

"Ha," he sobbed, breathlessly, removing his glasses, "I doubt that."

"Who knows for sure... That's just what I've heard."

Of course he had only heard it, Roderich thought bitterly.

Ludwig did not cry.

But he was too far gone to stop, and as long as Ludwig could sit patiently with him, that was enough.

He felt weak, and exposed. It was unlike him to show this much emotion, but he was worn down, and if he kept it in any longer he felt as though he would have no choice but to lie down and die.

As the sun sank lower in the sky, his exhaustion began to take over and slowly his cries subsided. Drying his face with his sleeve, he tried to push aside his embarrassment and shame, rasping, "Thanks for keeping me company." He finally brought himself to meet Ludwig's pale eyes, and, still clutching his glasses in his hand, he added, "You were right. I do feel...better."

Ludwig stared back at him evenly, a serious air around him. "I'm glad. I know how it feels." His eyes raked over Roderich's crouched form, thoughtfully. "To wish that everything would just hurry and end... I tried to not think about any of it, but... That only made me feel worse. It was bad enough to not know the past, but the thought of not having a future..."

He trailed off, shaking his head absently to himself, and then he pulled his knees up to his chest in a strange manner, whispering, "Sometimes I feel so lonely..."

'But I've been here the _whole _time,' he wanted to say, in exasperation, and hadn't he? It was so easy to get angry at Ludwig for being blind to his feelings, but the time for blaming others had long since passed.

It was his fault.

"Me too," he finally managed to say, and, without thinking, he reached out, wrapping his arms around Ludwig's shoulders and pulling him in. He could feel the German tensing in his arms, and he reached up, and for a moment Roderich thought that he was going to push him away. Such an act would have crushed his soul. But it passed, and Ludwig collapsed against him, resting his head on Roderich's shoulder resignedly.

They did not speak.

A moment in unison was enough.

* * *

Vienna was the most miserable goddamn city in the entire world, Gilbert had decided.

He was still here, granted, but it was not because he wanted to be. And it was nothing like Berlin, where he was confident and in control. He had slunk around here and there, trying to figure out where his nemesis had escaped to, but it was hard. He had picked the lock to Roderich's door, and had all but made the house his own, searching through every room and every drawer, reading every loose paper.

Nothing.

There was no hint. Some ridiculous part of him had been hoping that there would be a huge map in the foyer with a thumbtack and a scribbled note saying 'so and so in the morning' and a large red x over said city. Needless to say, he had certainly discovered a map, but as to the tack...no such thing. But, it _was _a nice place to sleep off the less opportune parts of the day. He slept in the bed where Ludwig had slept. He felt less alone there.

At least for now. Until he tracked him down.

His new target was the embassy.

He had spent the last few days charming Roderich's little secretary, but the bitch was cold as ice and, even worse, tight-lipped. Worthless for even the most basic of things, and even less so for secret information. But his disappointment was short-lived. If she wouldn't talk, then so what? He had spent the better part of his life breaking into (and out of) buildings, and he could damn well do it again.

Pulling himself to his feet from Roderich's expensive sofa, he walked over to the window and looked outside. The sun was almost completely gone, and the embassy had been closed for at least two hours. That was enough for everyone to clear out, right?

Right.

He had all he needed; a pick, a lighter, and gloves.

As soon as the stars were visible, he stepped out into the summer night, making no sound as he slunk down the path and out onto the street. Vienna streets were well-groomed and pretty. Another difference from Berlin. It made him more visible, and he struggled to keep in the shadows, but in this classy part of town everyone went to bed early, so it was mainly a precaution.

The embassy was easily spotted, its white marble steps shining bright in the moonlight. He slunk up to it easily, and pulled out his pick, jamming it into the doorknob eagerly. There were no lights from inside, so silence was not of great importance.

But the lock was stubborn, and he had begun to consider shattering the glass doors before it finally gave in. Slipping inside, he felt his way through the dark, and when he was far away enough from the doors, he pulled out his lighter.

God, he thought, as the fire lit up the carved stone room like the sun, the lighter was the best thing he had ever come across. If these had been invented only a few years before, his job would have been a lot easier.

He found the door he needed, narrowing his eyes subconsciously at the prettily written 'Edelstein' on the glass, and lunged through.

There had to be something in here.

But his frustration only grew as he tore the room apart. Roderich's papers were so meticulously filed, and he appeared to keep absolutely no records of where he went and when. Only a drawer full of signed documents, and a well-oiled leather seat at the desk. Not even a map on the wall. The days on the calendar were blank.

"Shit," he cursed aloud, and backed out.

What a waste of time.

He was beginning to think that he would have to do something drastic to get some information (he would kidnap that ice-queen, if he had to, and he was certainly capable of hurting her) when something caught his eye as he was passing through the hallway:

The desk where said ice-queen always sat.

Surely, what he sought was here.

And indeed, he had only just opened a drawer when a paper on the top of the desk, weighed down by a small glass vase, attracted his attention.

A handwritten note.

He snatched it up, and held it close to his face.

'_Please advise : all appointments with Ambassador Edelstein must be cancelled pending relocation to Varna. Reschedule all in timely fashion when date of return becomes available.'_

He barely stopped the squeal of victory that was threatening to come forth.

Varna, huh? Well, that was the first step.

Now, he just had to figure out where the fuck Varna actually was.

But that was the easy part, and he stole away into the night, locking the door behind him as he went. When he returned to Roderich's abandoned home, he went directly to the map, and began to study it.

He looked everywhere, as carefully as possible, starting at Spain and working his way over. Nearly a half hour had passed before he felt the rush of adrenaline in his veins.

There it was.

Varna, Bulgaria.

He was undaunted by the distance. He would go _anywhere _to get Ludwig back.

There was no time to waste. He had brought nothing of his own except money to Vienna, so he helped himself to whatever he needed from Roderich. He filled a cloth bag full of whatever tickled his fancy. He took clothes, a map, whatever money he could find. He took expired identification cards, expired embassy cards, documents. He took loose jewelry. He even took a photograph of Roderich and Erszébet, and tucked it away, just in case.

He changed his clothes first, dressing himself in Roderich's elegant shirt and pants, even though they were almost too tight. He tried to tie the cravat, and could not, but took it anyway. He observed himself, and couldn't help but smile. He almost looked like a diplomat.

Enough to fool the average Joe, at any rate.

He was ready to go, and threw his bag over his shoulder, heading to the door. He had just stepped onto the porch when he paused, body rigid in contemplation. He looked around, and almost grimaced at how ugly the porch furniture was; wicker chairs, bland beige. Had those been there the last time he came?

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his lighter, and flipped it into life. He watched the flame dance, and then smiled to himself, dreamily.

Well...

He resumed his walk, and as he hit the first step, he threw the lighter over his shoulder nonchalantly. It landed squarely on one of the wicker chairs, which went up like a torch. He walked slowly and deliberately, and did not look back, even when the light of the fire from behind him shone brightly enough to light up the sky like another moon. He could feel the heat on his back.

No matter what happened in Varna, Roderich could not drag Ludwig back to Vienna.

Not without a house.

As he rounded the path and headed back out onto the streets, now lit up by fire rather than the moon, he began to hum, heading to the train station and leaving behind him a seared path of destruction.

* * *

**A/N **: Yes, you read that right. Gilbert burned down Roderich's house.


	18. August 6, 1915

Chapter 17

**August 6****th****, 1915**

August was a dreary month.

It just wouldn't stop raining, and the sea was rising, angry waves pounding the coast relentlessly. And Roderich, fighting against the wretched tide, was finding himself tottering dangerously on sanity's fine edge.

What a miserable past two weeks it had been, and being cooped up in this awful embassy in this awful city in this awful weather was not helping matters much.

Ludwig tried his best to keep him afloat, helping him with his paperwork when he was dragging and keeping the house clean, but Roderich could feel the steady sinking of despair. He wanted desperately to return to Vienna. He could not.

The call.

Oh God! God, that _call_...

If he had known two weeks earlier, when the phone rang, what was about to be said, he would _never _have picked it up. It had started so innocently, and he had just assumed that the Viennese policeman was making a routine check in to tell him all was well, as they did every so often at his secretary's behest.

But it had not been, and the conversation had turned down a wrong road so quickly.

'Ambassador, there's been a..._ah_, an incident...'

'What's happened?' he had asked, a twist of nervousness in his stomach. He had, at that moment, thought that perhaps something had happened to Erszébet.

'I'm sorry to inform you, sir, but I'm afraid that...your house was lost in a fire.'

The suddenly clamminess of his palms and the whoosh in his ears was enough to drown out the anxiety in the police officer's voice. He staggered, catching himself against the wall, nearly dropping the phone.

He couldn't breathe.

He couldn't think.

'_What_?' he had finally managed, voice barely above a whisper, and when the words had come through the static again, he could only feel the beating of his heart. He vaguely remembered asking, 'when?', and when the beleaguered constable had said that he was 'almost certain it was a week ago', he had gone off the handle and far over the edge of the cliff.

He recalled that he had started shrieking (not screaming; but the voice-cracking, shrill, blood freezing act of shrieking) so loudly that he thought he would faint from the effort. 'A _week_? _A whole goddamn week _to tell me that _MY HOUSE BURNED DOWN?_'

'Sir, we weren't sure-'

'I've _been _here, _in Varna_, the _WHOLE TIME_!'

'We weren't sure-'

'If it took you a week to tell _me_, then how the _FUCK _are you supposed to find the _goddamn _son of a _bitch _that burned down my _house_?'

'Sir, there's no evidence of arson right now. We didn't find any gasoline at the scene. M-maybe you didn't extinguish the fireplace completely before you left, or -'

'YOU STUPID _BASTARD_, WHEN _I _COME BACK TO VIENNA THE _WHOLE FUCKING POLICE DEPARTMENT _BETTER _PRAY _THAT THEIR CHIEF HAS SOME DAMN GOOD LAWYERS ON CALL BECAUSE ALL OF THEM CAN EXPECT THEIR DAY IN COURT _AFTER THEY'VE BEEN FIRED_! BY THE TIME I'M DONE WITH YOU, YOU'LL WISH THAT THE EMPEROR HAD JUST SENT YOU OFF TO THE _WESTERN FRONT_!'

With that, he had slammed down the phone, and quickly discovered that he had stressed his voice so terribly that he could not speak for two days. In frustration and grief, he had punched the wall as hard as he could, effectively fracturing his right middle finger. His anger increased ten-fold, and he had been on the floor, mouthing the foulest obscenities known to man when Ludwig had come into the office to check on him. The blood on the stone wall had been a colossal hint that something was amiss, but Ludwig did not ask questions, at first, concerning himself more with dragging Roderich onto his feet.

He was too proud (and cheap) to go to the doctor, so, he had gathered household items, and recruited Ludwig to snap his finger back up into place so he could splint it. The blond did so, albeit reluctantly. It hurt like holy hell, and he had almost cried, but the pain in his hand was no comparison to the terrible pangs of loss.

The days after that had been a blur. He hadn't left the house. He hadn't picked up the phone. He could only sit and stare blankly ahead, lost in his thoughts. He had always been so concerned about his possessions; he had taken Erszébet, and later Ludwig, along with him when he went on journeys to assure that they were safe. It had never occurred to him that something perhaps as equally important-the historic house that his parents had bestowed upon him-was in danger by merely being left alone.

He should have hired a guard. At least a housekeeper... The extra money spent would have been worth it, it would have all been worth it... And now, generations upon generation of family history was lost. Gone. All of his earthly possessions... His clothes, his loose wedding ring, his heirlooms, his photographs, even his Bösendorfer grand piano, all of them gone in a blaze.

His father would never have let such a thing occur, nor his father before him or _his _father before him.

He was a failure. Erszébet had been right in her resentment of him, and Gilbert had known it all along.

Ludwig, seeing his fall into depression, tried to engage him in conversation, to no avail. The blond asked him, over and over, what had happened, and who had he been screaming at? He had no answers. He was dazed, and fell behind in his duties.

Thank God that Ludwig had been at his side constantly, confused at to what exactly was going on, but willing to at least keep his temper in check, file his papers, answer the phone, and make sure that he didn't slam his injured hand into the wall.

Again.

It was unfair of him to thrust such responsibilities on the teen, but he could not seem to get himself moving.

Now, weeks later, they sat together on the tiny sofa, as Ludwig gingerly and patiently unraveled the bandages around the splint on his finger. It needed to be adjusted, and Ludwig, with his perfectionist's nature and eagle-eyes, was the perfect person to do it. He took Roderich's broken digit in his hand and forced it back into the straightest possible position, and Roderich winced, just a bit.

"Sorry," Ludwig murmured, quickly. He glanced up at Roderich with burning eyes, and asked, "Can you move it?"

He tried.

"A little," he supplied, keeping his eyes on Ludwig's face as he stretched his finger as much as he could. But it hurt too much, and he had to stop, shaking his head in agitation as Ludwig pulled the abused hand back up. Now, as he watched the German putting the pieces of thin wood around his finger with intense concentration, he could not help but feel a bit foolish.

"You know," Ludwig suddenly said, lowly, "I would still be interested in knowing what angered you so that you found it appropriate to show the wall who was boss..."

Roderich only half-smiled, and shook his head again. Ludwig's lips pursed at his evasiveness, and Roderich relented. "Assholes in Vienna," he finally muttered, and leaned back wearily into the sofa as Ludwig began to wrap his finger.

He had not told him yet.

How could he?

Especially when...

He wasn't stupid. His house _happened _to burn down the same week that he and Ludwig had left for Varna? The same week that Gilbert had shown himself at his door? The same week that Gilbert had implied, so ominously, that this was not the last they would hear of him?

Just a coincidence?

Laughable at best; impossible at worst.

And he wasn't just paranoid. He had not lit a fire for months, and there had never been electrical problems. His parents had always been stringent about an annual inspection, and when he had acquired the house, he diligently continued this tradition.

So, then...

Gilbert was the only remaining option. He could not prove it, but God, he was certain. And he couldn't tell Ludwig, because Ludwig would know it too, and what was the point of both of them living in pain and fear? Besides, he had other concerns at present; how far could Gilbert go? He had thought that the Prussian was just full of hot air, but this was different. This was personal. There was scarcely anything else that Gilbert could have done that would have been more frightening. So what came next?

He was no longer sure about what Gilbert was capable of.

"There we go," Ludwig whispered, more to himself, and Roderich looked down at his freshly splinted finger.

"Thanks," he responded mindlessly, and said nothing more. Ludwig pulled himself up, and he could feel the German's eyes lingering on him. He refused to meet them, staring straight ahead. Ludwig lingered for a moment, and then blew air through his teeth in annoyance, and was gone.

It was for the best.

He needed to be alone.

* * *

The rain had finally stopped pouring, a light drizzle the only remaining trace of the storm. Pools of standing water lined the cobbled streets, reflecting the gloomy grey clouds from above. It was hard to tell the hour just from looking outside, but it couldn't have been much later than sunrise.

The streets of Varna were empty except for an old woman carrying a bundle, a skinny, lost dog, and a man, walking through the fog with a coat held over his head as a makeshift umbrella. Any local who had been out would have immediately recognized a foreigner; he stopped and stared at the road and shop signs in complete incomprehension, and it was obvious that he could not read the Cyrillic alphabet.

If they would have been close enough to really see him, they would have also noticed that his clothes were dirty and torn, and the dark circles under his listless eyes told of his lack of sleep.

And, indeed, Gilbert was exhausted. It had been hell on earth getting to this godforsaken city.

It was so easy at first that he had nearly started laughing at Roderich's expense, and had started plotting about how he was going to get Ludwig away from the Austrian. He had stopped in Hungary to buy several bottles of chloroform, and he had every intention of using them if he had to.

But then...

When he hit the Serbian border, there had been an issue: the Serbs were too goddamn thorough, and had immediately seen through his fake passport. They turned him away, as a belligerent, and he had wasted almost an entire week before he had found an opportune spot and made a mad dash for a barbed wire fence. He scaled it nimbly, and was on the other side before anyone even knew he was there, but he had ripped his clothes to holy hell.

He was stuck in Serbia for six days, hitchhiking and walking, before he had finally reached the border with Bulgaria. He bought a train ticket, and had finally gotten a few precious hours of sleep as it steamed along to Varna.

When he got there, he realized he had a massive search ahead of him.

Already, he had been here a week, wandering the streets aimlessly, hoping absurdly that he would just have the dumb luck to accidentally bump into Ludwig on the street. He searched for the embassy, but he could not read these damn letters, and realized he had perhaps jumped the gun by coming here so quickly.

He was lost.

He had been sleeping on the streets, and now was no exception.

The clouds above rumbled threateningly, and, wearily, Gilbert ducked into the nearest alley, hunkering down and preparing for another fruitless day. Leaning against a wall, he threw his coat over his head and fell into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Bored.

Bored.

He was so bored...

Pacing back and forth, Ludwig turned and glanced occasionally at the sleeping Roderich on the couch, chewing his thumbnail irritably. The brunette had been sleeping a _lot_, Ludwig noted, but that was certainly just a sign of depression. It wasn't so much his silence that was unnerving as much as his complete immobility.

Roderich had not gone into the office for over a week.

Ludwig didn't mind doing the paperwork or answering the phone; actually, he realized, he enjoyed it. It made him feel useful and more in touch with the world, but he was desperate for more personal contact. Roderich had suddenly become so boring...

And he had forbidden him to leave the house alone, so what was there to do?

But so many days of being cramped in this tiny environment was driving him mad. And absolute boredom was making him long to do something risky.

Slinking forward, he leaned down next to Roderich and whispered, "Are you awake?"

No response.

Reaching out gently, he touched Roderich's shoulder.

Nothing.

Confident that his older counterpart would not awaken for a while, Ludwig backed silently to the door.

What harm could it do to take a short walk around the boulevard? He wouldn't go far, and if he kept diligent track of his surroundings, it was unlikely that he could get lost on such a small street. And God, he was _so bored _cooped up inside this house...

But Roderich had sounded so worried...

"I won't be long," he whispered aloud to himself, trying to rationalize breaking Roderich's trust.

He had survived the trenches of war, the streets of Württemberg, and the wrath of Gilbert.

A walk around town would not kill him.

He took the doorknob in his hand, and pulled the door open, slipping outside without a sound, looking over his shoulder almost guiltily as he escaped.

But the second he set foot outside in the fresh air, all of his anxiety evaporated. It felt so good to be in the outdoors again, even if it was just the city. Anything was better than inside.

Hopping down the steps eagerly, he darted out into the street and looked around. The sky was clouded, but the rain had stopped. It was pretty here, he noticed. He didn't need to go down to the beach; a quick walk around this block would satisfy him immensely.

Ambling forward, he tucked his hands in his pockets, and sighed contentedly. Looking around either side, at the quiet buildings and the comfortable atmosphere, he could not understand Roderich's concern.

What was there to worry about here? It seemed calm enough, and the people walking down the streets seemed only too happy to mind their own business.

He tried to keep track of the amount of time he was spending. Roderich, after all, would not sleep all day. And if he woke up and Ludwig wasn't there? Hell to pay.

But God... Being out here, walking around freely, was intoxicating. He could spend the entire day just walking up and down this one street.

But his mind had a tendency to wander sometimes, and he was so focused on trying to count the minutes that he realized that he had completely lost track of how far he was walking. He looked over his shoulder, and felt his stomach twist in a sudden rush of anxiety; the embassy was so far in the background it was almost out of sight. Immediately, he turned on his heel and fast-walked back from whence he came, more concerned with how angry Roderich would be if he woke up to find him gone than he was about his surroundings.

It was a mistake that he should never have made.

He knew better.

He should have heard the footsteps coming up quickly from behind. He should have seen the second shadow on the ground. He should have seen the glint of steel reflected in the grey light of the sky.

He did not, and was caught completely off guard when a sudden, strong arm reached out and wrapped itself around his neck. Before he could react, he was being dragged into an alley, and was thrust up against the wall of a building.

He was stunned momentarily, but when he finally gathered an inkling of himself, he realized he was in an unfavorable predicament. Held back against the stone by a short knife held directly in line with his chest, a man stood before him, shouting in a language he did not understand.

It was fast and blurry and he couldn't seem to gain control of his senses. A mutual realization perhaps, for the man reached out and smacked him firmly on the head, barking something that sounded like, "_Pobarsai_!"

Ludwig came back down to earth quickly, and his mind cleared.

He was being robbed.

He looked at the man before him, seeing him clearly for the first time, and felt a strange lurch of pity in his chest. It wasn't a man; it was just a boy, his age perhaps. A boy dressed in the dirtiest rags he had ever seen, far too thin and with a terrible cough that rattled his whole frame, and a look of desperation on his face.

He wanted his wallet, he knew, even though he could not understand the words. He reached down into his pockets, more than willing to part with it, but his search came up empty.

He had left it back at the house.

"I'm sorry," he said, coolly, and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, 'what can I do?'

The boy reached out and patted him down, and Ludwig's brows came down in regret when he thought the thief would burst into tears when he found nothing.

They caught each others' gazes momentarily, and then the boy poked his knife threateningly into Ludwig's shirt, and looked down at his arm, and said, "_Dai mi tova_!"

Ludwig looked down, saw that the boy was pointing at his watch, and quickly removed it. "Here." He held it out, and it was swiftly snatched and tucked safely away.

There was a short silence, as the boy seemed uncertain of what to do now that he had taken everything Ludwig had. He was frozen in place, but the German was not terribly concerned. He felt a sharp sting in his chest from where the tip of the knife was poking him, but he did not feel that his life was in immediate danger. His heart was not even racing. This thief seemed generally inept, at the absolute worst, and Ludwig stood completely still, giving him space and time to think things out. He had clearly been expecting a struggle, but there was none; why bother? This boy, he presumed, was only hungry. If he had had his wallet, he would have given that too without worry.

He did not, however, realize how imminently perilous his situation would look to someone else who would have been passing by.

A blond tourist, held by knifepoint against a wall by a crazed, homeless mugger...

And that was exactly what it must have looked like to _someone_; there was a sudden shadow on the ground, and with a sharp, pained cry, the boy that was holding him captive fell to the ground. Ludwig could only stare down at him, and the knife that was sticking out of his back seemed to be the only thing he could focus on.

The silence around him was deafening.

What was happening?

He wasn't moving, Ludwig realized with a lurch of his stomach. Blood began to seep out from under his still form and onto the wet streets.

So much blood...

He hadn't seen blood like that since...

"Are you alright?" came a sudden, husky whisper, and his head shot up so fast he thought he would faint. Heart speeding and blood pounding in his ears, he could have sworn, for a second, that he was standing back in that trench in Italy.

The sky was dark with smoke.

Before him stood an Austrian soldier, bathed in mud and dirt and blood and clenching a rifle to his chest. "Ludwig?" he cried, and reached out, shaking the blond's shoulder roughly. "Hey!" Ludwig looked down at himself, and felt a splash of ice run down his back; he, too, was back in his uniform. Covered in blood, a rifle slung over one shoulder and rounds of ammunition over the other.

"Ludwig!"

How...?

Reaching up, he clenched his hands in his mud-covered hair and shut his eyes as tightly as he could, as the soldier in front of him screamed, "Come on! We have to go! The Italians are coming!"

He could hear drums beating in the distance.

"No," he moaned, despondently, shaking his head, "I won't..."

God, how had he come back here? Hadn't Roderich saved him from this?

Or had that just been a dream?

"_Ludwig_!"

He couldn't go through this again. "Stop it!" he cried, and wrenched back when the soldier grabbed his arm. "Get away!" He stumbled, falling back against something hard. Instinctively, he opened his eyes, and a burst of bright light hit his eyes, making his head pound in agony.

"Ludwig?"

"Stop..."

Rough hands grabbed his arms, and he dared himself to look again.

His heart stopped.

The soldier was gone.

Before him now, looking frightened and frantic and completely exhausted, stood Gilbert. Ludwig was stunned, mind racing with a thousand crazy thoughts, completely convinced that he was seeing things. But then the silver-haired hallucination reached out and took his face in his hands, and he could _feel _it; you couldn't feel a delusion, could you?

He was going insane, then. He had to be.

"Gilbert?" he moaned, and the man before him broke into a breathless smile.

"Thought I'd lost you there for a minute," he replied, and Ludwig fell forward, burying his face in the crook of Gilbert's neck, closing his eyes wearily.

"Are you really here?"

"Of course I am," Gilbert whispered, pulling him into a tight, passionate embrace. He could not find his voice, contenting himself with resting against the Prussian for support as he gathered his thoughts.

'Why are you here?' he wanted to ask. 'I told you to stay put.'

Gilbert never listened to _anyone_...

He shivered when Gilbert nuzzled the side of his face affectionately, the warmth and feel of his skin convincing Ludwig once and for all that he was, truly, not seeing things. He should have been angry, he knew, but... That terrible moment of being back in the middle of the war had lowered his defenses.

"I'll _always _be here for you. I'd do _anything _for you," Gilbert suddenly murmured, and the strange, grave tone of his voice made Ludwig tense subconsciously in alarm.

What was he talking about? What would he do?

Finally, he opened his eyes and took in his surroundings, and what he saw forced a wave of nausea through his stomach.

He had forgotten... How could he have forgotten?

That boy...

"You killed him," he whispered, and pulled back, catching Gilbert's crimson eyes. There was no remorse in those eyes, no guilt. No feeling.

"I know," he said, simply, and Ludwig's hands began to shake at his sides.

"You... You!"

He couldn't handle it.

"_WHY_?" he screeched, and rushed forward, pushing Gilbert with such force that he was knocked to the ground. "_What were you thinking_?" He lashed out with angrily with his foot, but Gilbert, with the reflexes of a wildcat, dodged the blow, pulling himself back up. They stood now at opposite walls, Ludwig on the left and Gilbert on the right, and a dead boy on the ground between them.

Gilbert was smiling incredulously, as though he were unable to comprehend exactly why it was that Ludwig was so mad at him. "I was protecting you," he said, as Ludwig's horrified face became paler and paler. "He would have killed you, so I killed him first. I told you... I would do anything for you..."

"All he wanted was my wallet!" Ludwig cried, resting his weight against the building as his knees grew weak. "All he wanted was my _fucking _wallet!"

"It's alright! It's over now... You're safe."

"I don't... I can't..." Ludwig trailed off, no words available to describe what he was feeling.

He wanted to vomit.

"I don't get you," Gilbert said, and his gentle, caressing voice had turned rough and aggressive. "I really don't. You should be thanking me! What else do I have to do to prove that I love you?"

Ludwig looked up, and something in Gilbert's crimson gaze had shifted wildly and dramatically. "I'll do anything for you," he repeated emphatically, and took a step forward. Ludwig shrank back as far as he could, caught suddenly in an intense, excited look bordering on insanity.

It frightened him.

"Gilbert," he whispered, trying to mask his nervousness, "You have to get out of here."

"I'm not going anywhere. Now that I know where you are..." Gilbert was coming ever closer, and when he was in arms' length, he reached out to caress Ludwig's cheek. "Please don't be mad," he coaxed, voice once again gentle, and Ludwig could only shake his head.

"I don't need you to watch over me," he whispered, reaching up and shoving Gilbert's hand away with contempt. Gilbert watched him patiently, as though he were a child, and then broke into a bout of laughter, resting his hands on his hips.

"Of course you do! I've always watched over you, haven't I? What would you do without me? Look at us!" he shouted, and pointed to the body on the ground. "Why did I have to do _that_? Because I had to protect _you_! Because you can't protect yourself!"

"Don't you try to make this _my _fault!" He said it spitefully and fervently, because inside he knew that it _was _his fault, really, and God help him... Even now he could not look at Gilbert and feel hatred... If he had just stayed home, none of this would have happened.

..._wait_.

Why was _he _trying to rationalize for _Gilbert_? For this crazy, reckless, unrestrained nightmare of a man that would have been any psychologist's dream?

Why...

"Get out of here," he repeated, desperately, trying to appear more in control than he felt. "Get out before someone sees you! They'll arrest you..."

Because Gilbert was his big brother?

"I'll walk you home," Gilbert said, enthusiastically.

"Absolutely not. Go back to Berlin. You can't stay here."

Because Gilbert had raised him?

"But I want to stay with you," Gilbert whispered, and took his hand within his own. "Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"Gilbert..."

Or was it because...

"I love you..." Gilbert squeezed his hand tightly, and, when Ludwig did not respond, he finally nodded his head. "Alright. Alright. Go home. I'll leave you alone, but I'm not going back to Berlin. I'm staying here with you. If you want to see me... Just come outside. I'll find you."

He backed off, and disappeared into the narrow alley streets, and Ludwig turned and fled like a coward, leaving the scene of this crime before anyone could see him here.

Running back to the house that he should never have left, he knew that he had just fallen into an abyss of trouble.

Gilbert was becoming more and more uncontrollable, and farther out of touch with the real world. And now that he was here, in Varna... What could he do? He couldn't tell Roderich. God! He would die, and vacate the city immediately, job be damned. But...wouldn't that be a good thing? Why was it that the thought of leaving Gilbert behind again made him feel...

He did not know exactly how he felt.

One thing he knew for sure : He could _never _tell Roderich.

Beyond that, he could not see the outcomes of this encounter. And he could not predict how the _next _encounter with Gilbert would play out. It was only inevitable that there would be another.

How was it that Gilbert was so placid around him, and yet so dangerous out in the open? And why was it that it seemed to bother him a little less every time?

Why couldn't he just turn his back on Gilbert, once and for all?

Just because he loved him? Because Gilbert really _would _do anything for him?

It was wrong, but some part of him could not help but feel a certain rush of irresponsible excitement at the thought that there was someone out there who would go to any length for him...

Dangerous, and yet exciting.

But already an (somewhat) innocent bystander had paid the price for his silent tongue.

When he reached the embassy, confused and guilty and with an adrenaline high, Ludwig pushed open the door and slunk back inside as though nothing had happened. Roderich was still asleep, and hours later when the Austrian awoke, he made coffee and breakfast and smiled as though all were well in the world.

He hated himself, as the shadow of murder hung over his head.

He was becoming as good a liar as Gilbert.


	19. August 15, 1915

Chapter 18

**August 15****th****, 1915**

Night was approaching.

The skies were clear, and the sun setting in the west painted the clouds every possible shade of pink, and made the east light up with stars. The half-moon was high on the horizon, almost translucent as it fought with the sun for dominance. It was another beautiful beach sunset, and Ludwig watched silently from the window, holding the sides of the curtains in either hand. Roderich did not permit them to be drawn for long periods, so he only opened them to watch the sunrise and sunset.

Even such a tranquil picture of nature could not take away his sense of anguish.

He felt almost as hopeless now as he had when he was in the military camp in Austria, when he did not know what the future held.

He was finding himself in a snare that was slowly closing around him.

He had done something..._stupid_.

Actually, ludicrous was probably a more appropriate word.

Hanging his head and heaving a sigh, he still could not believe that he was capable of such actions. He hadn't meant to take it so far, but...

How could he have let Gilbert sleep on the streets? The Prussian was too stubborn to return to Berlin, and Gilbert had sheltered him when he was younger, so how could he pass up the opportunity to return the favor? It had been this disjointed rationality that had led him, on the first day that Roderich had finally returned to work, to sneak into the Austrian's room and kneel down in front of the safe.

He had been sick at heart and bleary-eyed with guilt as he had turned the combination lock over and over again, blindly guessing the numbers. He knew that he could have simply found the correct numbers if he had looked inside Roderich's files, but he did not; the coherent part of him that remained had hoped that he _couldn't _open it.

When a random sequence (why was it always birthdays?) had clicked, he had squinted his eyes shut in despair. Inhaling to steady himself, he had pulled the heavy steel door open, and took out a stack of bills, perhaps an inch thick. It was not enough that Roderich would miss it immediately (he hoped) but it would suffice for his plans.

Roderich, though not exactly a long distance away, was tucked away in the embassy half of the building, and he had so many late and back-logged papers that Ludwig knew it would take him until long after dark to return. With that knowledge, he had opened the front door and stepped outside without worry, going down the stairs and standing off to the corner.

As so promised, Gilbert had appeared there, not five minutes later.

It had unnerved him, a bit, to know that Gilbert's eyes were always upon him. He had forced the money into Gilbert's hands (he had seemingly used all he had on the journey to Bulgaria; what had he bought?) and told him to find a place to sleep. Neither of them spoke Bulgarian, but Ludwig was relatively confident that waving a few Austro-Hungarian bills in front of someone would earn a keep.

Apparently it had, but...

He had _not _meant for Gilbert to acquire a room that was directly across the street.

The first time he had opened the curtains and felt that he was being watched, he had brushed it off. The second time he had had that same eerie feeling, he had looked around, and felt a rise of horror when he realized that the inconspicuous building in front of him held a silver-haired, unblinking, grinning idiot in one of its lit windows. When they locked eyes, he had nearly ripped out his own hair in frustration when Gilbert waved at him energetically, like a hyper schoolgirl, like they were in some kind of _club_.

Seeing Gilbert watching him so intensely from across the way had frightened him, at first, but now... It was more of a strangely endearing annoyance, like a bad habit that just wouldn't go away.

Why couldn't he stay mad at Gilbert?

He only opened the curtains when Roderich wasn't there, and kept them firmly shut when he was. He could imagine the shrieking that would ensue if the brunette happened to look innocently outside, only to see Gilbert smiling creepily back at him.

That was six days ago.

Apart from Gilbert, he had been having other issues. Worse ones, almost, but they were certainly interlinked.

He could not sleep.

Ever since the incident in the alley, every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was that boy, and the look on Gilbert's face after he had killed him, and the guilt was eating at him.

And when he finally did fall asleep, it was not for long.

The nightmares had become so infrequent, but now, they came at him every night with a vengeance. The worst images engraved in his mind from the war, and they were so vivid that he sometimes started awake, arms rigid in front of him as though holding an invisible rifle, aiming it at absolutely nothing.

The Italian solider had started haunting him again, accusing him, blaming him...

He spend the nights sitting in his bed, knees pulled up to his chest and rocking back and forth as he struggled to hold on to the last shreds of sanity.

Every night was worse.

There was no reprieve.

* * *

If the expression 'dog-tired' was even remotely accurate, then Roderich sincerely pitied his canine counterparts, because if _this _was how they felt all the time - so completely and inexcusably exhausted that even his chest hurt just with the effort of breathing - then why in God's name did they even bother waking up in the morning?

He was ready to collapse.

As he pushed open the door to the ambassador's lodgings, as quietly as he could so as not to disturb Ludwig, he glanced up at the clock on the wall and heaved a weary sigh :

Two in the morning.

Setting his briefcase down at the door, he reached up and loosened his cravat, and fell to a dead stop as entered the room, contemplating. He was _so _tired, but if he didn't eat something, he was certain he would die of starvation before the dawn broke.

As he trudged heavily into the kitchen, he sincerely regretted having missed even one day of work. It wouldn't have taken so long, either, if he hadn't broken his goddamn finger. Why couldn't he have punched the wall with his left hand? It would have saved him about five hours of misery, trying to hold his pen between only his index and thumb. It would have saved him the horrible cramp, too...

Dragging himself over the counter, he put on a pot of water, and then began rummaging through the refrigerator for something to snack on quickly. He found the Stollen that Ludwig had made the night before, and cut a slice, pouring himself a cup of tea as soon as the water boiled. Sitting down at the table, he fell against the back of the chair and hung his head, almost too weary to pick up his teacup.

He could see the moonlight streaming in feebly through the curtains. The night was cool and comforting, and he could feel the stress of the day slowly evaporating. It was wonderful to set aside the weight of war, if only for a moment.

But a soft creak of the stairs brought him back into the realm of insecurity, and he stood, arms tense at his sides. "Who's there?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper, and when there was no response, he slipped off his shoes and walked towards the living room, extinguishing the light as he did so. "Ludwig?" Was it? Or had somebody snuck inside while he had been out? There were so many people that did not want him here, and this old house would not stand up to the crowbar of a criminal...

But, he quickly realized with great relief, it _was _Ludwig.

Just Ludwig...

When had he become so jumpy?

The blond had just come out of his room to take a seat on the sofa, staring listlessly at the dark, unlit fireplace as he intertwined his fingers this way and that absently.

Roderich felt his heart race in anticipation; Ludwig had come down, perhaps, just to see him after a long day? To make sure he was alright? To ask how his day went? He stepped into the German's line of vision, and waited expectantly, the warmth in his chest pleasant. He had expected Ludwig to smile up at him and declare how much he had missed him, how lonely he had been in his absence, but...

He didn't seem to realize he was there.

"Ludwig?" he ventured, taking a step forward. "Are you...alright?"

Ludwig stirred in surprise, and turned to peer up at him, wearily, and only shook his head. Roderich was suddenly taken aback when he came closer, and could see that Ludwig's hands were trembling, and the dark circles under his eyes gave away his lack of sleep. He looked terrible, uncombed hair sticking out every which way. Pitiable, even.

So, then, _that _was why Ludwig had been up so long before dawn this past week.

Insomnia.

Feeling the warmth in his chest dissolve into clamminess, he took a seat next to Ludwig, keeping a careful eye on him. The last time Ludwig had lacked sleep, he had been...frightening.

"Can I tell you something?"

"Of course," Roderich responded, alarmed at the tired, disheartened tone of Ludwig's voice. But this time was different than the last, he realized, and instead of threatening and perhaps crazed, Ludwig seemed to be more on the brink of tears, as he held his face in his hands in utter exhaustion.

Apparently, Roderich thought to himself, was no longer the only one living in the realm of constant anxiety, and he was curious as to why. Exhaling heavily, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and waited quietly and patiently for Ludwig to speak.

It didn't take very long.

"I can't sleep," he finally whispered, shifting his weight subconsciously into Roderich's side. He did not notice Roderich's nervous tapping of his foot at the touch. "I haven't slept all week. Every time I do, I have these...nightmares. I did something stupid, you see... Something terrible. And now, I can't get away from it..."

"Do you want me to get you some sleeping pills?"

It wasn't the question he wanted desperately to ask, but he feared being excessively nosy, and Ludwig was very private in his thoughts. He would tell him what this stupid act had been, when he was ready, if he ever was.

"I don't know," Ludwig whispered, and furrowed his brow. "I... There's something else..."

Roderich clasped his hands in his lap, and stayed silent.

"Sometimes," he began, and Roderich could hear such anguish and self-hatred in the otherwise smooth voice that he was overwhelmed with the urge to reach out and hug him. "When I think that I'm waking up, I open my eyes and I'm back in the mountains. It's so _real_... I can smell the gunpowder, and the blood, and I hear his voice, asking me why I didn't... Why I couldn't save him."

"Who?" he asked, throat so dry that his voice cracked.

"A soldier. I never told you, but... There was a soldier... I let him die."

Roderich looked over, startled. This was the first time that Ludwig had willingly spoke about his brief time in and around the trenches, and he had not expected his first words on the subject to be about... He shuddered subconsciously, and was suddenly not sure that he was comfortable listening to such stories. He was not able to stomach these things.

"You don't have to tell me," he whispered, hoping that maybe Ludwig wouldn't, but the blond shook his head.

"I have to... Please, I have to tell someone. I can't..."

He could not turn his back on Ludwig in this vulnerable state merely because of his own weak stomach, and tried to brace himself.

"I'm listening."

Tentatively, Ludwig continued. "I got lost. I was alone in the woods. I ran away, while everyone else was dying... I was _running_, and there was this soldier. An Italian. I wanted him to kill me. I did everything I could, so that he would shoot me. I just wanted to die."

Roderich's blood froze in his veins at the earnest statement.

"But he was so scared. I was just going to leave him alone, but he... He told me which way to go to get back. He could have let me walk right into the others, but he didn't. I still don't understand. I don't know if I would have done the same if it had been me..." Ludwig looked up now, catching Roderich's eyes in an intense, resigned gaze. "He saved my life. Once I got back to camp, the raid came... I still hear them say it. 'Every Italian in that forest in being shot'. They sounded...proud. I-I tried to go back for him," he suddenly said, fervently, as though trying to convince Roderich of something very important. "I swear I did, I tried to go back and find him, and tell the others that he was..._alright_, you know. But... I couldn't. I let him die there."

Silence.

What could he say to that?

"Whatever happened," Roderich finally murmured, reluctantly, "It's not your fault."

"But..." Ludwig buried his face in his hands, and what was _really _bothering him came to light as he moaned, miserably, "I _knew_ him! I know I did... He looked _so _familiar, and I swear that I could remember... But I couldn't think. I didn't even ask him his name." He pitched forward in frustration, groaning, "Why didn't I ask him his _name_?"

Roderich would have normally scoffed, and asked, 'How could you possibly have known him?' because it simply didn't _seem _possible (despite a certain nagging thought in the back of his mind), but that moot point held little importance now. There was nothing he could say that would calm the storm in Ludwig's conscience, and it was folly to even try.

Rather, he reached out, taking one of Ludwig's hands within his own and giving it a firm squeeze. He took note of how cold it was.

He would have been quite content to leave the whole conversation at that, before he got heart-sick, but Ludwig was not done.

"I'm having flashbacks. I saw an Austrian soldier the other day. I _saw _him, right in front of me. ...I'm scared."

"Of what? They're only dreams."

"But I was awake," he insisted, perhaps feeling that his concern was not being understood. "It was the middle of the day and I was standing there and I had my rifle... I'm afraid that I'll see something one day...and that I might hurt you."

Roderich squirmed in his seat, but tried to laugh it off.

"I trust you."

How could he admit to Ludwig that sometimes he worried about the exact same thing?

"You shouldn't." He hung his head, and then whispered in a voice so soft and ghostly that it was barely audible, "I'm being punished, aren't I? For doing so many horrible things..." He took his hand from Roderich's and reached up, clenching his fingers in his hair. "I feel like I'm going _crazy_!" He looked up in sudden fright, and caught Roderich's gaze with a wide-eyed look of distress, asking, absurdly, "You won't send me away will you? You aren't going to send me to an institute...are you?"

He opened his mouth and lost his voice, and the ridiculousness of the question made him throw his head back and laugh, madly. Ludwig watched him with a furrowed brow as he cackled, perhaps thinking that _both _of them were going crazy. He could not seem to stop, and felt the tears sting his eyes as he struggled to regain control.

A mad house? _Ludwig_? The most serious person he knew? Ha. Himself, more likely.

_Whee! _he thought, giddily and immaturely.

"_Ludwig_!" he wheezed, as he removed his glasses to wipe his eyes, "How could you think such a thing? I hope you haven't really been considering that!" Coming back down to earth when Ludwig frowned, he tidied his hair and tried to regain a sense of dignity. And sanity. "I could never do that to you," he added, honestly. "Besides, you're not crazy."

"How can you be sure?"

"If you want," he said, feeling the atmosphere lightening, "I could schedule an appointment with a doctor to get you checked out. And I promise you that he'll say the same thing. Would you like that?"

Ludwig nodded, and sank back into the sofa, his mood improving.

"Alright."

"Good. Why don't you have some tea? Maybe it will help you sleep, and tomorrow, if I get out earlier, I could take you back down to the beach."

"Can we go at night?"

Roderich glanced at him, curiously, and he flushed.

"I like watching the stars," he whispered, strangely.

"Well," he considered, slowly, "I suppose." It didn't sit that well with him, as paranoid as he was about this city, but how could he say no? And as long as they stuck together, it shouldn't be too dangerous, and the cover of night would make it harder for someone to distinguish who they were.

It did not occur to Roderich that perhaps Ludwig was thinking the exact same thing.

"Alright," he concurred. "We'll go at night. I guess it wouldn't hurt to do a little star-gazing..."

How many years had it been since he had gone out just to observe the heavens?

Had he ever? He couldn't recall.

"Hey," he said, gently, "Why don't we open the curtains, just for tonight?" It was a pretty night, and maybe Ludwig was feel more at home if the moonlight could come into the room.

He stood, and the second his hands were reaching out to take up the cloth, Ludwig was suddenly upon him, grabbing his arm and pulling him back with a strangled, "N-no!"

"_Huh_?" he managed confusedly, alarmed when Ludwig yanked him off to the side, far out of reach of the window, a look of apprehension on his face. "What's wrong? I thought-"

"It's just!" Ludwig said, clumsily, as though he was struggling to find words as he foundered under Roderich's suspicious, unrelenting gaze. "I...um...it's just that, ah, y-you said it wasn't safe! ...right?" He shrugged a shoulder, weakly, and tried to smile. He failed.

Raising a brow, Roderich could not help but feel a nagging sense of something being awry, and he turned back to windows, saying, "I said it's alright, just once. I thought you liked the stars?"

He reached out, again, and then, _again_, found himself being pulled back.

"Please don't," Ludwig whispered, and now Roderich pulled his hand away, feeling his ire rise.

"Alright," he snapped, impatiently, "What's going on? Why are you so-"

"I'm not comfortable with them being open," he interrupted, and dragged Roderich away too enthusiastically, stumbling back against the wall. Roderich fell against his chest, and reached out to balance himself, nearly stomping his foot in frustration at being thwarted.

"What! I still don't...understand...why...?"

He fell still, voice dying in his throat as he realized with a jolt of nausea that he was in a mortifying position. Arms held out straight as he pressed his palms against the wall, and in front of him, Ludwig stood tense and still, hands still gripping fistfuls of his shirt to ensure that he did not try to go back. They were so close that he could see the pulse racing in the German's neck, and Ludwig stared back at him, eyes wide and almost guilty, but he had long since forgotten exactly how he had gotten here.

All that mattered suddenly was that he was far too close, and he should have pulled back, but he was frozen in place, and Ludwig wasn't moving to push him away.

It struck him now, more than ever, how beautiful Ludwig had grown up to be, as the nervous nausea in his stomach turned into something much worse : desperate longing. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as Ludwig's pale eyes shone silvery in the faint moonlight, and without realizing it he had suddenly fallen in closer. How could he have known so many years ago that the lost, scraggly blond child he found would have turned out to be so...

"Ludwig," he whispered, breathlessly, "Have I ever told you..."

"Yes..?"

He was slipping.

"Have I...ever told you that...I..."

What was he doing? Maybe this wasn't right...

"That I..."

The voice of reason in the back of his head was being slowly stifled, and he looked down at his hand; his wedding ring was gone. And Erszébet had taken hers off, hadn't she? So... Why not? What else was there for him to lose? His wife was gone. All of his friends were gone. His _house _was gone. The only things he had left in the world were Ludwig and his pride, and the latter was becoming steadily less important than the former.

"Roderich, maybe-"

Whatever Ludwig had been planning on saying was lost, as Roderich threw all caution and reason to the wind and fell forward, rising up on the balls of his feet and crushing their lips together in a moment of weakness that could possibly have been more like self-indulgence. He could feel the blond freezing up completely underneath him, as his hands flew up in surprise, and that goddamned annoying voice in his head accused him of abusing his power of guardianship over Ludwig for not-so-wholesome means.

But, he reasoned to himself, if Ludwig did not want to, all he had to do was push him off. He did not, and Roderich took this patience (or maybe he was so still for panic? He shook it off) as an invitation and reached up, taking Ludwig's face in his hands.

It was overwhelming, and Ludwig was so beautiful and caring and sincere, and he relied so much on him, and that made him feel important, something that he craved above all else.

To be needed...

Ludwig loved him. He admired him. He _trusted_ him...

It lasted an eternity, or at least it _felt _that way, and Christ it felt so good to be with someone like this after so long... He was so ecstatic at the blood running through his veins that, when he finally broke away, he could not wipe away the ridiculous grin that spread across his face.

"I'm sorry," he breathed, even though he was not, and pulled back, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "I shouldn't have... I mean, that was highly inappropriate of me..." He caught Ludwig's gaze, and tried to read his luck.

He was relieved when he saw neither anger nor revulsion in the icy depths, and waited for the stunned German to actually speak. But he did not. He only stared back, expression completely unreadable, and Roderich's resolve began to waiver. Maybe he had been a bit hasty in his judgement, or lack thereof. He fell back, swallowing heavily in embarrassment as he hung his head and moaned, "I apologize. I didn't mean to... It's just..." He backed towards the staircase, his confidence giving way to complete mortification as he came down from his adrenaline high.

Ludwig trusted him.

He was abusing that trust, he realized with a horrible lurch of guilt, and Ludwig was so impressionable and naïve, and too _young_... Everything he stood for; integrity, responsibility, morality, ethicality, would mean absolutely nothing... He had betrayed everything he believed in.

What had he done?

"Oh _God_... I didn't..." He collapsed onto the first step, reaching up and holding his head in his hands, feeling the tears that were threatening to burst forth at any second. He could not keep doing this. "I'm... I'm so _lonely_..."

His heart ached at the thought that he had irreversibly marred a wonderful friendship.

"Roderich..."

Pulling his glasses off and casting them aside, he buried his face in his palm as he struggled to keep himself together, if only for appearance's sake. Ludwig, after all, still depended on him.

"Roderich, don't..." He could sense the presence before him, and suddenly Ludwig had reached out, enveloping him in his arms, whispering, "I hate seeing you like this... Why didn't you ever tell me?"

He buried his face in Ludwig's shirt, and moaned, "How could I? You've never looked at me like that. You would hate me..."

And it was true; Ludwig had never shown even the slightest romantic inclinations. The sudden silence was thick enough to cut with a knife. He could all but hear the wheels grinding in the blond's head, and then, almost resignedly, Ludwig murmured, "You've done so much for me... How could I deny you?"

He had naïvely hoped for a confession, perhaps, of equally strong feelings, but...that was good enough.

"I love you," he blurted out, and the words felt strange on his tongue.

Ludwig seemed to understand the significance of this statement, and, awkwardly, he wrapped his arms around Roderich's neck. He could feel the fervent racing of Ludwig's heart, and the inexperienced clumsiness with which he ran his hands down Roderich's back was all the more endearing.

"Anything you want," Ludwig said, in trepidation.

_He _was the adult here. He should have been able to control himself. He should have said no...

But he was _so _lonely, and when Ludwig stayed completely silent as he placed a fervent kiss on the pale neck, he shut off the voice of reason and gave in. He dare not try to scale the stairs for fear of his weak knees giving out beneath him, and summoned all of his strength to pull himself to his feet and stagger towards the sofa, tugging Ludwig gently behind.

How long had it been? God, he could barely remember... At least five years. They tumbled onto the couch inelegantly, Ludwig trying his best to keep himself in a sitting position, almost as though he were trying to delay the inevitable.

Roderich's hands trembled as he ran them down Ludwig's smooth neck, down to his waist, eliciting a shiver while he was afraid that his heart would leap out of his chest. He had never been so nervous with Erszébet, but then again, _she_ had always been the instigator, dragging him into bedrooms and tossing him onto the floor as she would. It felt strange to be the aggressor for once, and pushing Ludwig down onto the sofa was an incredibly frightening (if not gratifying) experience.

He fell onto him heavily, savoring the feeling of being so close, allowing his hands to roam as they pleased. Ludwig's total placidity was both enticing and somewhat unnerving, and when Roderich's splinted finger struggled with the duty of unhooking buttons, Ludwig completed the task with almost mechanical efficiency. He tried to make eye contact, but failed, and Ludwig seemed to look everywhere but directly at him.

Somehow the shirts had been disposed of, and Roderich suddenly had the idea that he was, perhaps, dreaming. He _had _to be, because this was far past anything he could ever have hoped for, as he pulled Ludwig up to his chest and held him as tightly as he could for fear that he would wake up at any second, and this exquisite moment would be gone forever.

"I don't want you to go away," he whispered, resting his hands on Ludwig's hips and bringing him so close that a ghost could not have slipped between them.

There was a hesitation, and then Ludwig seemed to come to a point of acquiescence, and said, dutifully, "I...won't." It was sincere, if not somewhat strained, but Roderich, love-drunk, did not notice the tone nor the flush of what could have been embarrassment or shame on his face.

He was in the clouds, and when Ludwig's shaking fingers helped him to unclasp the buttons on his pants, he could not help but briefly feel a surge of spiteful pride that he had bested Gilbert's lame, incoherent confession. Because Gilbert had never lain on top of Ludwig like _this_, and he had never felt Ludwig's bare skin beneath his fingertips, as Ludwig ran his hands through his hair...

Clothes lay scattered across the dark room, and even though he could not see Ludwig very well in the thin, murky moonlight, he could _feel _him, and when he could contain himself no longer, he pushed forward, maybe harder than he had meant to, and Ludwig stifled a cry of pain in the crook of his neck, fingernails digging so hard into his back that he was sure he could feel drops of blood trickling down. The pain ignited a fire in his veins, and he grabbed Ludwig by the waist and pulled his hips as high as he could, wincing in a mingle of pain and pleasure as he dove in fully.

His apprehension had disappeared, as well as his shame. It was too late now to worry, wasn't it? He could not silence his moans, and why should he? There was no one around to hear, and if there had been, he was not certain that he would have cared.

Ludwig did not make a sound. Roderich envied his self-control, and his quiet dignity.

Something suddenly passed in front of the moonlight, just a shadow, but for some reason it startled Ludwig so that he gasped aloud and tried to sit up in alarm, but he succeeded only in pushing himself further onto Roderich, who groaned his appreciation, taking little notice that Ludwig seemed suddenly extremely anxious, and was focusing his gaze on the window intently. Nervously.

He was just insecure, he assumed, and he tried to draw Ludwig's attention back to himself with a forceful, but not vicious, thrust of his hips. If he could just break that mask of seriousness, it would be all the more worth it... He got a soft hiss, but that was it.

It was enough. He was fearful of hurting him, and he was already peaking, moaning heavily in ecstasy, "_God_!" as he collapsed on top of Ludwig, chest heaving as he tried to regain his breath and slow his racing heart. The feel of their bodies together afterwards, damp with sweat, was nearly as good as the act itself, more personal and emotional. He had absolutely no intention of moving from this spot, and made it clear, reaching up and grabbing the throw blanket from the top of the couch, pulling it down over top of them. Ludwig heaved a sigh, and rested his head back wearily.

"I love you," Roderich whispered lowly once they had settled, placing a chaste kiss on Ludwig's damp forehead in a small display of deep affection, as he rested his head in the curve of Ludwig's neck.

"I know," came the soft response, and then there was only silence.

It was alright, and he loved the feel of Ludwig's heart beating against his chest, as the German, perhaps for the first time in days, drifted into sleep. Further words were unnecessary.

He stayed awake, too thrilled to give in to repose. He felt hopeful again. Life had, in an unexpected hour, regained some sense of meaning.

The war seemed a million miles away as he felt Ludwig's chest fall and rise with the deep breaths of sleep, and he relished the dreamy feeling of being happy, really _happy_, after so many years of misery, and he did not even for a second consider that perhaps Ludwig's willingness had stemmed from of a sense of obligation, and not necessarily a reciprocated feeling of love.

It almost didn't matter.


	20. September 1, 1915

Chapter 19

**September 1****st****, 1915**

"Why don't you come with me into the city today?"

Staring blankly ahead as he stirred his coffee with an absent hand, Ludwig, completely oblivious to Roderich's voice, had a million different things on his mind. Most of them were the normal concerns about keeping a house, but sometimes the usual questions intermingled with decidedly _unusual _ones.

Did I turn the stove off? Did I close the refrigerator door? Did I put the iron up? Has Gilbert killed anyone today? Is the coffee too strong? Maybe it needed more sugar... Have the police found that body yet? Did I overcook the potatoes? What about the Stollen? Did someone see us there? Have they come forward? Are Roderich's papers all stamped? Roderich hasn't opened the curtains, has he? ...is Gilbert getting enough food? Is he alright?

He could barely focus, mumbling incoherently to himself as Roderich watched him with a fond eye.

"Are you listening?" he finally asked, waving a hand in front of Ludwig's dreamy eyes.

"Huh?" he started, eyes wide, and Roderich shook his head, reaching across the table and placing his slender hand upon Ludwig's. Ludwig looked down at their intertwined fingers, and his brow came down in an imperceptible manner. Roderich did not notice, and caught his eyes.

"I said, why don't you come with me today?"

"Where?" he asked, lifting his mug up to take a sip.

"Meeting with the Bulgarian Prime Minister. Interested?" His sly tone of voice gave away the fact that he already knew full-well that Ludwig would (of course!) be interested, and Ludwig suspected that he had been saving this question for weeks, intending to spring it upon him at the last minute.

A gift, no doubt.

"Sure," he replied eagerly, desperate to leave the house if even for a moment, and anxious to watch Roderich in action with such a powerful figure. An invaluable learning opportunity. "When are we leaving?"

"Later," Roderich said, finishing off his coffee with haste. "I have to get my papers ready." He stood, taking his coat off the back of his chair and pulling it on, passing behind Ludwig as he added, "England, France, and Russia are fighting me for this damn country. I just have to make sure I make the better offer... I thought a little preview of the cut-throat world of diplomacy would please you." He laughed. "Meet me at the door in an hour, and we should be off."

Ludwig nodded his head, in a good humor, but he could not help but tense when Roderich reached out, brushing the top of his hair with his fingers, affectionately. And then he was gone, and Ludwig clunked his head on the table, closing his eyes heavily as he moaned to himself.

How did he get himself into these terrible situations?

First he had let Gilbert become too great a problem, one that could now not be gotten rid of, and now...

Now he was letting Roderich get in too far over his head. He was a horrible human being, he was coming to realize, and God, why couldn't he have just let Roderich down gently? But how could he, when Roderich had looked so far gone down the path of surrender? If he had taken another blow, there was no telling what he might have done. And he owed Roderich too much. A debt that could never be paid...

And why was it such a bad thing? He loved Roderich, of course he did, but... Something seemed off. He was uncertain of exactly _what _it was he felt. Maybe he was just nervous. He had never even _kissed _someone before that, let alone...

It hadn't seemed like such a terrible idea not so long ago, he reminded himself, to be Roderich's object of affection. So why now was he feeling so guilty and ashamed? He could not look the Austrian in the eye whenever he touched him.

Was it because he knew that Gilbert was just across the street? Watching? Waiting...

And, oh God, if he knew! If Gilbert ever found out what had happened...

He feared for Roderich's safety.

"You idiot," he muttered to himself, and shoved his coffee aside. If he had known that he was going to dig himself such an enormous hole, he would have just stayed in Vienna. It would have been better for all three of them.

Hauling himself from the table, he passed like a phantom into the living room, and when he caught sight of the window, he shuddered.

He had not opened them since that night. He could not bring himself to look Gilbert in the eye. No doubt that the Prussian would know something seemed different, and then he would get nosy, and _then_...?

Who knew.

He had been so apprehensive after that night. He could swear that he had seen someone's shadow behind those curtains. He wasn't that crazy, was he? He had found himself having difficulty putting all of his emotions aside, and when Roderich had kept his word and taken him to the doctor, he had been relieved when the medic had seen his anxiety and had given him pills.

Veranol.

The first night he had taken it, he slept until the dawn, and had no dreams. It was a God-send, and he could feel the exhaustion receding. The flashbacks stopped. He felt sane again, and tried to stop worrying about Gilbert.

He could not, but as long as he could at least pass the night worry-free, he was able to handle it.

Now, if only there was a pill that could get rid of his guilt he would be set to go.

He stood in front of the fireplace, zoning out once again, and he had stood there for perhaps a half-hour when the phone rang. He jumped at the shrill bell, and turned to eye it disdainfully.

_Always something._

Going to the wall, he grabbed it up in his hand, and sighed as he pulled it to his ear.

"Hello?" he said monotonously, voice dripping with disinterest. He was getting to the point where he was nearly sick and tired of answering Roderich's goddamn phone calls, and given the new circumstances, introducing himself as secretary was doubly degrading.

Roderich's _secretary_? Ha. Right...

But when a smooth voice suddenly drawled on the other line, "_Hey! Why don't you open the curtains so I can check you out today? I haven't seen you in a while_, " he nearly dropped the phone in shock.

"G-Gilbert?" he hissed, furiously, as he subconsciously turned his eyes to the shielded window. "How did you get this number?"

"_I broke into the embassy last night_," he chirped, proudly, and Ludwig's eyes widened in something that went far beyond horror. "_No one even noticed this morning, buncha dumbasses."_

He fell deathly silent, trying to fight off the horrible pounding of blood in his ears as he imagined Gilbert slipping inside _this_ building, where _he_ slept (in Roderich's bed, he added to himself with a churning of nausea) so close to him without his knowledge, and he finally managed to sputter, "You did _what_?"

"_I said I broke_-"

"_I _heard_ what you said_," Ludwig screeched, slamming his fist onto the end table in outrage. "What the hell are you _thinking_? No, never mind, you _don't _think," he spat, and collapsed down onto the couch. "You're an _idiot_..."

"_I prefer the term delinquent_," Gilbert snitted, and Ludwig could not repress his scoff of scorn.

"Oh my _God_," he moaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as he squinted his eyes, "You've gone off your rocker, you know? You really, really have."

"_Are you busy? You should come over today. I'd like to see you_."

What..?

What was this, school all over again?

"May I remind you," he began, irately, "that the only reason you are currently residing across the street is because you are in hiding? I am _not _going over there, _you _are not coming over _here_. You are going to sit there, and be quiet, and _stop watching me_!" He had resisted the urge to say, 'Sit there and think about what you've done,' because that would have implied that Gilbert could actually feel bad, and he suspected that chiding his insane counterpart like a naughty child would only illicit possibly worse behavior.

No thanks.

He glanced over at the closed curtains, and added, ardently, "And don't call this number anymore! Roderich will drop dead if he hears you on the phone."

"_We can hope, can't we?_" was the cool reply, and the seriousness in Gilbert's voice made him shudder. "_Listen, I'm not in a bargaining mood today. Either you come over here, or I'm crashing the party there. Your choice. And don't think I can't get in..._"

"_Goddammit_, Gilbert," he cursed, and reluctantly admitted defeat. "Alright! I'll come over. But not today," he quickly amended, "I have to go somewhere with Roderich. I'll come tomorrow."

"_You're lying. I'm your brother, I know when_-"

"You're _not _my brother," he interrupted, in a voice so fierce that it cracked, as he felt a wave of anger burn through his veins. "I don't _ever _want to hear you say that word again, do you hear me? You're _not _my _brother_." The other line fell completely silent in what could have been shame, and Ludwig sighed, relenting a bit. "I'm not lying. I give you my word. I'll come tomorrow."

"_Awes_-"

"And _God help you _if cross that street _again_!"

With that, he slammed the phone down, and hauled himself up from the couch, angry and agitated. Who did he think he was? Why was it that Gilbert thought he could do whatever the hell he wanted, and that there would be no consequences? Was he that sure of himself? Or was he just that damn stupid?

He glanced up at the clock, saw that it was time to go, and tried to calm his racing heart. "Pain in the ass," he muttered to himself, smoothing his hair and pulling on his coat, stomping out of the side door and into the connecting hallway.

Roderich stood patiently at the front door, briefcase in hand.

"Ready?"

"Yeah," he grumbled, and Roderich raised a brow.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. I need some more coffee, is all."

"Ahh."

They strode off, Roderich keeping himself as close to Ludwig's side as possible, and as they walked onto the street and to the waiting car, Ludwig refused to look up at the building across the street, keeping his eyes firmly ahead.

He would not give Gilbert the pleasure of knowing that he had rattled him.

* * *

"Don't be so nervous."

It was freezing in this stone hallway, in the bowels of the presidential building, and the grandeur of it was unlike anything Ludwig had ever seen before. When they had been instructed to wait, he had collapsed onto the polished, wooden bench, clenching Roderich's briefcase so tightly in his lap that his fingers were going numb. Roderich's clothes were so expensive and well-made, far more than his own, and the equally well-dressed man that sat on the bench on the opposite side of the hallway was eyeing him strangely. Self-conscious, he felt terribly out of place here, in this world of presidents and ambassadors and warring empires, and when Roderich had reached out and touched his shoulder, he had jumped.

With a knowing smile, Roderich leaned in and whispered, "Don't be so nervous."

He nodded, and ducked his head sheepishly, mortified.

"Can you pass me my folder?"

Reaching out and snapping the briefcase open with clumsy fingers, he grabbed the file and held it out, feeling scrutinizing eyes upon him, and he took out other papers for himself. He wanted to check that everything was stamped correctly, if only to have something to do with his hands.

They sat in silence, and Ludwig was afraid that they would hear his pounding heart in this silent hall.

He peered over to the side, but Roderich was already far off into his own world, scanning his papers ruthlessly.

"Hey."

The sudden whisper was barely audible at first, and Ludwig started, lowering his paper and realizing, fretfully, that the well-dressed man sitting across the hall was leaning forward, watching them with a peculiar interest. He glanced over at Roderich, to see what to do in the presence of other diplomats, but Roderich only ignored him, never looking up from his file.

Ludwig, unsure of himself, glanced over and caught the man's gaze, and, embarrassed, quickly looked away.

"_Hey_!" he hissed again, eyes scanning the room briefly to make sure they were alone, and when he was satisfied, he added, in fluent German, "I know you hear me."

Roderich's brow was lowering in annoyance, and Ludwig's was rising in interest.

He observed the man, as he held a paper up to his face to draw less attention to himself.

Blond and green-eyed, he held his chin up in his palm, resting his elbow upon his knee as he stared openly, without shame. His posture was loose and confident, that of someone who had been doing this for many years, and his expressive eyes beheld a sharp (if not obnoxious) intelligence.

Why was he so interested in them?

Suddenly, he crossed his legs and said, louder, "Hey, you're Edelstein, right? I knew you'd be here today too. Austria's sending their best, I guess." He laughed, and crossed his arms above his chest, as Ludwig peered over his paper, eyes darting back and forth between the two, expectantly. "They must have known you'd be up against _me_," he added, inspecting his nails with heavily lidded eyes of self-satisfaction.

Roderich's foot began to tap, furiously, and Ludwig hid his smile behind the paper, knowing that the Austrian was tottering on the edge of explosion.

"Of course," the other continued in a slow voice, as though he were speaking to children, "_I _expect to leave this country victorious. And not soon enough. Bulgarians are so thick-headed..."

Roderich's eye was twitching.

"...and I dare say that this was hardly a challenge at all! I mean, when all Austria-Hungary can offer are vague promises of useless Serbian land... And so close to Russia! Who would fight on the side of the Central Powers with Russia as their next door neighbor?"

Ludwig's smile evaporated when Roderich's fingers began to contract, nearly crumpling the papers within. Feeling a tightening in his chest, he began to worry that maybe this was going to get out of hand...

"Sometimes neutrality is just a front, you know, for greedy nations to get the best offers. But who can blame them, I mean, being in the Balkans! And what's more-"

"I'm _sorry_," Roderich suddenly cried, sharply and spitefully. "Are you speaking to _me_? Because if you want to hold a conversation I'm afraid we'll both have to get written permission from Parliament, won't we? Or is your special talent _fraternizing_?"

Ludwig paled in alarm, and looked over at the door, absurdly thinking that a guard would come in and escort all of them outside.

"Ooh," the blond cooed, pulling his briefcase onto his lap. "You're not very friendly, are you?" He turned a sudden, severe eye to Ludwig, and smiled. "Mm. You must not be that _good_, either, if you had to bring your _secretary _with you." He put his hand above his mouth to hide his chortle.

Without thinking and offended at being labeled a secretary (yet again...), Ludwig snitted, over his paper, "Perhaps you're just not good enough to have your _own_. Lick all your envelopes yourself?"

"Eh..."

Roderich raised his brows and cleared his throat in satisfaction, as the man tried to match Ludwig's unsmiling, unwavering gaze. He could not, and changed the subject with a carefree wave of his hand, this time aiming to wound.

"Say! You're _German_, aren't you?" he drawled eagerly, voice thin with delight and superiority, as if he were gazing upon a lower life-form, and Roderich bristled at the tone. Ludwig, for his part, merely huffed, and then fell into a loose stance of disinterest. Pleased at having riled them, the blond carried on, "I can tell just by that fake Vienna accent you try so hard to pull off!" He placed his finger on his chin, thoughtfully. "Hmm... _Berliner_! Am I right or am I right? Of course I'm right, I'd know that unrefined _twang _anywhere. Drop your 'r's much?"

Turning his head primly to the side, Ludwig kept wisely silent, trying his best to ignore the warm, pink flush on his cheeks.

And now Roderich leapt to his feet, and Ludwig hid his entire face behind the paper in complete and total mortification. "And you're _English_, _obviously_," Roderich threw back, agitated and baited and not nearly so patient as his decidedly German counterpart. The blond tormenter stood, too, and just when Ludwig thought that the two diplomats would throw off their cravats and tangle in the presidential hallway, the door opened and a man stuck his head out.

"A-ambassador Edelstein?"

Grimacing, Roderich sent the Englishman a withering glare, and, taking up his suitcase, he passed him quickly by, tossing back as he went, Ludwig firmly at his side, "And _I_ could tell just by your _teeth_."

The blond's hand flew up quickly to his mouth, and they disappeared inside.

* * *

"That damn jerk."

What an opportunity wasted!

Irritated, Ludwig paced restlessly outside the palace, hands tucked in his pockets as he awaited Roderich to tie up loose ends. He had wanted so badly to listen to Roderich argue points and offers and deals, and in front of a Prime Minister! but he found that once he was sitting in a chair behind him, all he could think about was...

Embarrassed, he tucked his chin down and began muttering to himself.

Roderich's words had been lost to the universe, and he had spent the entire hour reading absently over a paper, pronouncing words relentlessly in his mind with a furrowed brow.

Twang?

_Twang_?

His pride had taken a blow, and he could not help but wonder if Roderich had ever listened to him speak and had a silent laugh at his pronunciation. He had never even thought about it before. Gilbert, of course, had an undeniable Berlin accent, but he had always assumed that _he _spoke properly.

"That goddamn _jerk_," he hissed to himself, and, when the doors to the palace opened, he assumed Roderich was finished. Turning around as his cheeks burned red, he threw his arms out, and began, loudly, "Roderich! Do you think...I..."

He trailed off in horror when he realized that it was not Roderich behind him. It was _him_.

"Hey, you!"

Turning tail, he sped down the many stairs towards Roderich's car, his embarrassment doubling as a cry of, "Hey! German!" followed him. Looking to avoid confrontation, he refused to respond, but when he looked over his shoulder, he saw that the British ambassador was running towards him, waving eagerly. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

Turning his chin up, Ludwig slowed his pace when he realized that he probably looked ridiculous running, and continued his journey down the steps in a slow, silent walk of dignity, crossing his arms above his chest.

His patience was wearing thin...

"Hey! I'm talking to you!"

He wanted so badly to retort...

"_German_!"

That was it.

Whirling around like a viper, he threw his arms out emphatically and cried, furiously, "I have a _name_!" Stomping his foot, he added, "_Stop _calling me that!"

The Englishman skidded to a halt in front of him, and smiled. "Sorry!" he said, although his tone of voice clearly indicated that he was _not _sorry. "Can I have a word?"

"Absolutely not," he spat, and turned away. But the annoying, obnoxious, persistant Brit kept leaping into his line of vision.

"Listen! I'm just trying to help out your old Austrian boy, is all!"

"You shouldn't be speaking to me."

"It'll only take a second," he insisted, and Ludwig heaved a sigh, realizing that relenting would be the only way to get this incredibly annoying human being away from him.

"Make it quick," he muttered, and the Brit's smile turned into a grin. "You have one minute."

"Ah, you must be a diplomat in training! Don't worry; what I have to say won't take very long at all. I just thought we could save everyone a few weeks of negotiating."

Ludwig's pale blue eyes met the dark green, and he did not like what he saw there :

A sly, cunning confidence, as though he had some kind of secret weapon that he had just been _waiting _to unleash.

"Why don't you just saddle up and tell Edelstein to go ahead and concede Bulgaria, and we can all go home a lot sooner..."

There was a short silence, and Ludwig could not silence his scoff. "_What_?" he asked, incredulously, and then, feeling a crazy bubbling of giddiness in his chest, he began to laugh. This whole situation was becoming increasingly ridiculous, and he did not know what else to do. And the nervousness in his veins was overwhelming, feuling his humor.

"I don't see what's so funny."

"R-Roderich would never," he wheezed, doubling over as he tried to stifle his crazed laughter, "He...he would never turn around, and go..." He could not finish his sentence, giving in completely to his mad giggles.

What the Brit said next made his laughter die in his throat.

"He really fancies you, you know..."

The electric air turned instantly stale, and Ludwig felt the world come to a grinding halt as his mouth went dry. He faintly heard a whooshing in his ears, and shuddered. He had never expected _that_, and he felt the first stir of nausea in his stomach. He was cold, suddenly.

Pleased that he had made an impression, the Englishman continued, "I guess some people can just stomach the Germans better than others." He scrutinized him, and added, "Although, I have to say, Edelstein's taste could be worse."

"You don't know what you're talking about," he hissed, feeling his hands begin to tremble.

"I'm not _stupid_," came the drawled response, flicking his hair out of his eyes nonchalantly. "You think I couldn't see it?"

"See _what_?" Ludwig snapped, desperately trying his best to create a front. But it was no use, and the Englishman began to snicker.

"You and him, of course."

His heart skipped a beat.

"_Secretary_? Ha! Right-o, I'm gonna believe that! No one brings their _secretary _to a private meeting with a Prime Minister!" His leered as Ludwig's pale skin became even paler, relishing that he had the upper hand. "And how sweet that he got so angry when I called you out! Ready to defend your honor... A man like Edelstein would _never _go out of his way to defend the honor of a _secretary_!" His giggles were torture.

"What do you _want_?" he whispered, closer to a whine, as he tried to keep his voice from shaking even though his hands were. He glanced up at the doors, anxiously. Where was Roderich when he needed him?

"Nothing much! Just tell him to go home. Bulgaria is _mine_. I would hate for the world to know about _you_... I bet," he added, knowingly, "That you don't even have the proper certification to live in the embassy, do you? No one checks those old things, nowadays... I would hate for someone to suddenly need _yours_. If you didn't have it... Where would you go, I wonder?" He broke off and raised his hand to his forehead, sighing dramatically. "Ahh, the illegal things one will do for love."

The untold possibilities made him squirm, and he felt his humiliation giving way to anger.

"Where would you go for blackmail, I wonder?"

But his empty threat was just that; a reserve soldier's word against an ambassador's? He knew that he had no recourse, and the only one that would come out on the bottom was Roderich. It burned him, to know that he was being played and there was nothing he could do about it.

"Think about it. You look like you have a lot to lose."

Frozen in place, he could only stare ahead at the stairs, falling into the dark half of his mind as he contemplated his options. Would could he do? He shook his head to himself, and then the doors above burst open and out came Roderich. When he saw the two of them down below he started screeching in fury, and the British ambassador quickly fled back into the palace, undoubtedly to attend his own meeting, sending Ludwig a lecherous wink as he went, knowing that he had won.

Ludwig bowed his head in defeat, a growing ball of hopelessness in his stomach.

What was he to do?

The ride back to the embassy was incredibly awkward and disheartening, as Roderich took his hand and tried to pry out of him the conversation, but Ludwig only shook his head despondently, mind and heart racing. His thoughts were growing increasingly dark, and he considered the unspoken possibility...

Something had to be done...

He would not go down without a fight.


	21. September 20, 1915

Chapter 20

**September 20****th****, 1915**

There was something about this situation that reminded him of the midnight trials run in the military entrainment camp: your allies were divided, half of them following alongside you while the others sought you out, as you lurked within an enclosed terrain, using familiar landmarks as your camouflage, and every silent, inconspicuous gesture was just a code for something more ominous.

Only in this case, Ludwig's known ally was (_really_?) Gilbert, while he did everything within his power to avoid Roderich, but it was hard in this small, connected building, and even the bookcase and the statue in the hallway that led to the door had become nothing more than well-placed hiding spots, as he opened and closed the curtains in what could very well have been a new kind of Morse code.

He hated sneaking around like this behind Roderich's back...

But, he thought bitterly as he slunk down the stone steps and darted across the street like a squirrel, sometimes you had to fight fire with fire, and heaven help he who found himself on the bad side of a German.

And he _was _German. What the hell was wrong with that?

It was his injured pride and a strange, burning desire for revenge that fueled him to seek Gilbert out, for the second time. And even though he knew now that they were not really related, the selfish, childish part of him felt that it was still Gilbert's _duty _to stand up for him in the face of insult.

He had spent ten years fabricating the role of big brother, and by God, it was time for him to act like it.

As he snuck inside the building and jogged up the stairwell, he could not help the thrill that was creeping into his chest. He hated to admit it, but he could not wait to see what Gilbert had come up with. It had been two weeks since he had asked him to take care of this sudden thorn in his side, and today, Gilbert had finally responded to his curtain call. He realized that he was excited, and it was not just the anticipation of what Gilbert would bring to the table.

It was the high of doing something he was not supposed to, made all the more exhilarating by the thought of how much _trouble _he would be in if Roderich found out. Shivering, he slipped through Gilbert's unlocked door, and came face to face with a smirking Prussian, who immediately engulfed him in a fierce embrace.

He did not pull away. If he wanted to be placated, he knew, _he _must placate first.

"Did he see you?" Gilbert asked, voice muffled against Ludwig's neck, but his high tone of voice made it sound more like he was hoping that Roderich _had _seen him escape.

"No."

They broke away, and Ludwig fell onto the dingy, ancient couch, crossing his arms, an expectant look upon his face.

"Well?"

Gilbert eyed him briefly, and turned up his chin. "Well, what?" he replied, breezily, and Ludwig knew that he was being baited. His brow came up in defiance, and maybe a bit of eagerness at the possibility of a battle of wills.

It felt strange, to be in such close proximity to Gilbert, with a light atmosphere and no current feelings of ill-will. It had been a long time coming.

It was...nice. Maybe he had missed it, even.

Narrowing his eyes, he pursed his lips and murmured, voice low and smoldering, "You _do _remember our conversation, don't you?"

Gilbert could not help but smile. How could he _not_?

It had been, after all, the most exciting conversation that Gilbert had had in years. Actually, it had probably been the most exciting conversation that Gilbert had _ever _had.

It had started out as a mild day, and, expecting that Ludwig would keep his word to visit, he had combed his hair out meticulously, parting it neatly and clipping his bangs. He was exceedingly vain by nature, but he had taken it to the extreme; he had cleaned and filed his nails, shaved as closely as possible, trimmed his eyebrows, brushed down his collar, even throwing a splash of cologne on the inside of his wrists. Excessive? Hardly. He was pleased with himself, and liked the way his pale skin was coming back to proper color now that he was in a less stressful environment, and off of all illegal substances. The ashy grey was turning back into creamy white. The dark circles under his eyes were not as visible.

He looked his age again.

He had spent so much time getting himself ready that he had failed to clean the room, but he hadn't been much concerned. His little apartment was small and dusty, but it had everything he needed, and besides, it did not need to be bright and elegantly furnished. He, after all, was the star of this room.

Excited at having Ludwig to himself in a private environment, he felt the weariness of the past year evaporating, and when Ludwig had finally shown up, he had been so beside himself with glee that he had pulled him down onto the aging sofa and clenched him to his chest like a teddy bear.

His confidence grew when Ludwig had not fought against his touch, and so had his ego when Ludwig had eyed him with a certain interest. He bristled with pride, knowing that someone took notice when he cleaned up, and thought that his luck would go a bit further (wishful thinking, no doubt) but Ludwig had seemed distracted, maybe even a little angry, and after a few minutes of gazing at each other thoughtfully, the blond had finally spoken.

"Gilbert," he had begun, and as he spoke, he had looked about the room, almost guiltily, "Could I...ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"Would you do something for me?"

"Anything."

"No matter what I ask?"

"I said anything," he repeated, and had meant it.

Leaning back into the dingy sofa, Ludwig had caught Gilbert's eyes in an intense, burning gaze, the slightest of smiles on his face, and the look alone would have been enough to make him surrender his soul, if Ludwig had asked for it, and assuming he still had one.

"Gilbert?"

"Yes?" he whispered breathlessly, leaning forward. The excitement was almost too much to bear, and when Ludwig's smile had broken free as he leaned in, and began to whisper in Gilbert's ear, he could barely keep himself from falling to pieces.

Never in his life...

There was a short silence of disbelief, and then Gilbert had smirked as he fell back into the couch, crossing his arms behind his head carelessly as he scoffed, Ludwig's request running through his ears pleasantly. "Why, Ludwig," he whispered, liking the sudden burn in his chest, "Are you asking me what I think you're asking me?"

"Just do it."

"What's in it for me?"

Ludwig scoffed then, too, and they stared each down. But Gilbert never backed down from anything, and Ludwig finally shook his head in exasperation, raising his hand to his forehead.

"Alright. But I'll see what _you _have to offer first."

Good deal.

"We're in business, then," he drawled, and the strange light that flitted through Ludwig's cool eyes had made him all the more eager to impress. "This will be no problem."

* * *

And it hadn't been.

Actually, it had been really goddamn _easy_, and he was almost disappointed at the lack of a real challenge. Especially when it was a matter of defending Ludwig's honor.

Ludwig's honor?

The more he thought about it, he had to admit that this seemed somewhat drastic. Ludwig had never been _that _proud, and it was perplexing that he was taking such a personal vendetta against a stranger for merely insinuating that his German heritage was a negative. Certainly, he was not getting the whole story, but so what? He was bored out of his mind, and he was ready to do anything just to feel excited.

And if his bargain held steady, maybe this would turn out to be beneficial for him.

With his prize in mind, he set to work.

Light snooping had uncovered two things : the aggressor's name was Arthur Kirkland, and he never, _ever _allowed his driver into his car before he was comfortably seated. The former was just a bonus, and the latter was perfect. Just perfect.

His first consideration had been to knock out the driver and take the position himself, and take Kirkland for a spin he would never forget, but... Tuck and roll was too easy an escape, and besides, where would he take him after? Such a plan left options hard to come by. He scrapped it, and thought some more.

He asked around the German and Austrian embassies (well out of the sight of Roderich, of course) all of whom were more than willing to spill confidential information about their nemesis, who was apparently unpopular with a quite a few more than just Ludwig.

Apparently, on the afternoon of the 20th, he had a very high-security, very (somewhat) secret meeting with the Bulgarian prime minister, and the word on the street was that England and France had joined together in a last ditch effort to make an offer than was absolutely irrefutable, as Bulgaria had been swaying dangerously towards the Central Powers, and Kirkland was the one who was going to sell it. Roderich, as well as the German and the Hungarian ambassadors, could only wait on the sidelines until he was finished, and then try to counter.

Consorting with Ludwig, he learned that this was an extremely unfavorable circumstance, and Ludwig's request had changed from 'shake him up' to 'Gilbert, if Kirkland makes it to that meeting, I will be very disappointed'.

Well, there was his solution. Now he only had to find a way to do as he pleased while at the same time conforming to Ludwig's four unbending rules :

1. No one could die.

2. Kirkland _had _to miss this meeting.

3. The message had to be loud and clear.

4. Absolutely _no one _could die.

At first, he had accused Ludwig of all but cutting his balls out from beneath him, but it was working out so far, even better than anticipated. He spent a week and a half sitting out in the cold, watching the British embassy with an eagle eye, taking note of every time Kirkland (blond, green-eyed, walking with a haughty, and likely undeserved, sense of self-satisfaction; he was easy to spot) came and went, and how long he was out when he did. He saw which car was his.

He had his plan, and sought about seeking the components he would need.

He did so, easily. The underground was still the underground, even if he didn't speak Bulgarian, and it was amazing what you could accomplish with just a few bills and waving your arms dramatically. He spent the nights fiddling at his scratched and uneven kitchen table, until he had pulled something together that he was confident in.

Which brought him back to the present.

Ludwig was watching him intently.

"You _do _remember our conversation, don't you?"

"Ah, right. That. Well..."

He knelt down, heart racing, and slipped his hand under the sofa, pulling out the unmarked, thick brown package that he had hidden there the night before. "I thought up a little something..."

Ludwig's pupils dialated in curiosity, but Gilbert was not ready to end his game so soon.

"I worked hard for this, you know." He turned away, holding the package at his side to shield it from view. "I thought you might like it."

"What is it?" Ludwig asked, trying to peep over Gilbert's shoulder shrewdly, and Gilbert could not help the sly grin that spread over his face, and he tucked the package close to his chest so that Ludwig could not see.

"Guess!"

Ludwig's brow came down in what almost looked like indignation, and he pulled himself up from the couch and reached out, grabbing handfuls of Gilbert's sleeve in an attempt to yank him around. "Gilbert," he cried, pushing himself onto his heels as he tried to rest his eyes on the hidden item, "We're supposed to be adults here! Let me see!"

But, he thought to himself merrily, Ludwig certainly didn't seem like an adult at this moment, whining and pulling on his clothes like an eager child.

"You wanna see?"

"Yes!"

"Are you _sure_!"

"_Gilbert_!"

"Alright," he conceded, and added, "Catch fast!" Ripping himself away from Ludwig's clutches, he chucked the package over his shoulder, and Ludwig reached up and snatched it out of the air with the agility of a trained assassin (which, Gilbert reminded himself with a pang of sobriety, he pretty much was). Satisfied, the blond brought the package down to his eye level and inspected it thoroughly.

"This," he began, as he ripped the top, "Better be good."

Confident, Gilbert merely raised a brow, and waited, hands on his hips.

The large envelope fell to the floor, and there was a silence.

"...Gilbert," came the suddenly soft and perhaps nervous voice. "What is this?"

"Oh, nothing much." He swiveled around, catching Ludwig's burning gaze, and narrowed his eyes in self-satisfaction. "I thought I could take down this summit and give the town a firework show at the same."

There was another stillness of dawning comprehension, and then, paling, Ludwig looked down at the inconspicuous item in his palm with wide eyes.

"_A bomb_?" he hissed, and to Gilbert's sinful delight, his arms flew up and the bomb fell to the floor, and he leapt back onto the couch, tall and rigid and gazing down at the explosive with horror, as though it would detonate at any second.

The silence was complete, and then, the look on Ludwig's face just too damn _good_, Gilbert tossed his head back and began to laugh. A few seconds passed, and then Ludwig, face burning bright red, threw himself down on to the sofa, and crossed his arms above his chest almost huffily. Gilbert doubled over at his waist, his giggles bursting forth unchecked.

God, it felt so good to laugh again...

Even at poor Ludwig's expense.

"I have to light the fuse _first_, ya big dummy."

"I thought I said no would could get hurt?" Ludwig retorted, irritated and embarrassed, and Gilbert gathered himself.

"And I'll keep my word. Don't worry about it."

"I'll worry all I want. What do you have in mind?"

"You'll see," he said, simply, and the growing concern in Ludwig's eyes was starting to sober his mood. Damn.

"Do you trust me?"

He met Ludwig's gaze evenly, and his assurance and earnestness finally forced Ludwig to bow his head and sigh.

"I trust you."

* * *

Waiting was not his strong point.

Fidgeting as he crouched inside the cluttered alley that had been his outpost for the past days' spying, Gilbert could feel the adrenaline flowing through his veins. Ludwig, nestled in at his side and supporting his weight with a hand against the wall, looked simultaneously excited and ill.

He could not help but fill a little ill himself. Ludwig thought that he had everything set to a perfect, fail-safe mechanical certainty, but that was a lie.

Kirkland left the embassy exactly one hour before every meeting, no matter how insignificant. It took two minutes for him to get from the door to inside the car.

The hour would strike the clock soon. The fuse on the bomb was good for five minutes...give or take. He swallowed heavily, as he looked up at the clock tower. Two more minutes. There were two ways that this could go wrong. Either it detonated too early, and Kirkland, undaunted, would simply find another vehicle and set off on his way. Or...it could detonate too late, once he had already gotten inside the car...

He was walking on the fine edge of a sword. Everything had to go just right for this to work.

"Gilbert..."

Ludwig was becoming nervous.

"Ah!"

There he was. Kirkland had stepped out of the door, and now he would stand at the top of the stairs, and chat to the attendant for a minute, like he always did...

His foot hit the first step, and sweat broke out on Gilbert's brow.

_Hurry up and blow. _

Another step, and another, and still nothing.

"Gilbert, nothing is happening," Ludwig hissed, eyes wide with growing horror, and the warmth of Gilbert's adrenaline suddenly became icy.

Another step. Kirkland was only yards away...

"Shit!" he cursed, and began to start upright, "Maybe I didn't-"

He was cut short when the blast rocked the street, and he fell backwards, reaching out instinctively and grabbing Ludwig's shirt, taking him down with him.

Sitting back on the dirty alley street, supporting himself with his hands, Ludwig was startled at the force.

The explosion was fiercer than he had imagined, blasting shrapnel in all directions as the fireball engulfed the car, and the white-hot light lit up the street like a second sun. His ears were pounding as all outside noises stopped, replaced by a shrill whistling. Time slowed, and he shuddered as the corners of his vision began to turn black, and there were those faint, ominous drums in the distance again, and the steady pop of machine-guns over the screams...

And then, pulling himself onto his knees and leaning over him, Gilbert reached out and snapped his fingers smartly in front of Ludwig's face, and he came back from the dark.

"Hey," Gilbert asked, lowly, "You seein' funny things again?"

And for once, with Gilbert's hand gripping his upper arm in a firm, comforting vice, and looking into the eyes of someone he knew, he could actually shake his head and say, honestly, "No."

"Good."

Taking his hand, Gilbert pulled him back up into a crouching position, and they peered out into the street. For a horrible, heart-stopping moment, Ludwig feared that maybe Kirkland had gotten too close, too soon...

Had he made a terrible mistake? His stomach churned.

But Gilbert was as good as his word, and when the smoke cleared, Kirkland was laying back on the pavement, gaping over at his burning car with a look of horror. And then, to Ludwig's guilty delight, he hauled himself to his feet and threw out his arms as he began to screech, and then he turned around and kicked the stone steps behind him with enough force to crack his foot and topple him backwards. People were running to his side to aid him, but he threw his briefcase at them, voice so high that it cracked as he screamed. As the now unrefined British ambassador ripped off his cravat and pounded his fists into the sidewalk and shrieked obscenities to the heavens, Ludwig reached out absently and clutched a handful of Gilbert's shirt in exhilaration, eyes wide.

"Good _job_, Gilbert!" he hissed fervently, and just for a moment, he allowed himself to get sucked into the excitement of Gilbert's illicit world. A warm hand running down his back made him shiver, and Gilbert's head was suddenly right next to his own, breath warm in his ear.

"_Always_," the Prussian whispered, heavily and aggressively, hand tightening around Ludwig's waist, and for a moment Ludwig was pushed against the wall and caught under a burning gaze of longing, but when an alarm sounded, Gilbert gathered himself and murmured, "Let's get outta here."

Grabbing Ludwig's hand, he dragged him back into the alley, and they disappeared from view.

Breathless and fuelled by excitement, he broke into a sprint behind Gilbert as they fled the scene of their crime. _Their _crime, he knew, because although Gilbert had made the bomb and lit the fuse, _he _was the one that had (in a sense) masterminded and manipulated the entire situation.

Was he a criminal now, too?

He was too out of his mind with adrenaline to care, as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. This was Gilbert's constant environment, wasn't it? This feeling of being in complete control and being far beyond the reach of the law. No wonder Gilbert was so wild and uncontrollable.

The feeling alone was intoxicating.

But he came down from his high when the twisted roads began to tangle, and suddenly Gilbert was too far ahead of him. Then the Prussian ducked into a side street, and Ludwig lost sight of him.

"Gilbert! Slow _down_," he hissed, but when he rounded the corner, he felt the first stir of anxiety in his chest: Gilbert was gone. He looked around the street cautiously, glancing over his shoulder in paranoia as he crept forward, trying his best to be completely silent. Goddammit. This was _not _something he prepared for. He did not know how to get back to the Austrian embassy from this part of the city. He had been completely reliant on Gilbert.

"Gilbert?"

He was afraid to shout. The police were probably already swarming the main streets, and he could swear that he could feel eyes upon him. Was someone following him? He felt a shiver of cold run through his chest.

"...Gilbert?"

A sudden clatter from the left made him jump, and, in panic, he darted forward without looking, and succeeded only in crashing into something soft and yet unyielding. Heart racing, he turned his head slowly, and realized with a sinking stomach that he was not alone.

"Hello."

A man stood before him, but it was not Gilbert, and Ludwig fell back at his presence. He was tall, even taller than himself, his long, bulky coat making him seem even larger than he was. With blond hair that could have matched his own in paleness, he gazed curiously at him with a tilted head.

Feeling the fight or flight response in his veins, he took a step back, and the man stepped with him.

"Are you lost?"

"No," Ludwig replied immediately, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice, and he did not miss the heavy accent that laced the other's words. What _was _that? Slavic, not necessarily Bulgarian. The attendant at the embassy had a softer palate. Excessively trilled 'r's, strange emphasis on the wrong vowels... A splash of ice ran down the back of his neck when he started to realize.

It was Russian.

"I think you are lost."

"I'm not," he insisted, and fell back another step. Another silent alarm went off in the back of his mind, as a sudden thought made him shudder; how did this Russian, upon seeing him for the first time, know that he spoke German? Had he, perhaps, seen him leave the Austrian embassy before? If so, he remembered _him_? In this city of thousands?

The possibility was frightening, and Roderich's words of caution suddenly rang loudly in his ears. Why had he not taken him more seriously?

Had this Russian followed him here? If he had, then did he know...?

"Are you sure? I could maybe help you get home... Would you like to walk with me?"

"Absolutely not," he breathed, and without another word, he turned on his heel and sprinted off, as fast as he could, without looking back. But everything here looked the same, and after several minutes of blind darting, he finally came to a halt, hunching over as he rested his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

Where was he? Looking up and seeing only unfamiliar buildings, he felt the sweat on his brow, and tried to steady himself. He had to carry on. He could not stay here. Straightening, he began to walk a bit, stiffly and cautiously, and afraid that he was being followed, he swiftly changed direction and darted into another alleyway.

He thought he heard footsteps, and he looked around, desperate for an out. He would not fall into the clutches of Russian spies. When he saw an opportunity, he took it, and squeezed himself back beneath several loose boards that blocked off an abandoned building. Crouching down, he was as silent as possible, placing his hands over his mouth and nose to suffocate his heavy breathing when he heard heavy steps approaching.

They passed him, steadily, and lingered. He watched the shadow from beneath the loose bottom of the boards, and wondered why it was always _him_. Always, he found himself in such predicaments...

The shadow shifted, and he feared that the man would hear the beating of his racing heart, but after a moment, the footsteps began to recede. He allowed himself to breath, and leaned back against the wood. Was he gone? Maybe, but he was taking no chances, and looked around. There was an opening through the boards, created by years of rain and rot. Small, very small, but maybe he could squeeze through, and get inside this grimy building and find a way out on the other side.

Reaching up, he tested the boards for strength, and, satisfied, tried to haul himself up. First one arm, then his head, and then his other arm passed after a short struggle. His shoulders were tricky, but he managed, barely.

And then, as he squeezed his chest through and came to a dead halt, he quickly realized that he was stuck. He felt the first pang of claustrophobia, and wriggled about, to no avail.

"Shit," he cursed, as he tried harder to force himself through. But he did not have anything in front of him to grab a hold of, his feet were not touching the ground to give him support, and, he realized with a lurch of fear, the footsteps were returning.

"Oh, _shit_," he hissed again, and now he began to struggle, desperate to get free before he was discovered. "God...damn... Mother..." He cut his arm on a loose nail, but that was of little concern.

A horrible creaking, and the boards shielding him began to move, and when he felt cool air wash over him, he knew that he had been had. He squinted his eyes, waiting.

"...Ludwig?"

The breath that he had been holding was exhaled in relief.

"Gilbert, you son of a _bitch_!" he cried shrilly, kicking his legs helplessly as embarrassment washed over him. "Get me out of here!"

"I don't know," came the drawled reply. "I kinda like you like this..." Sudden, warm hands began to run down his thighs unabashedly, and the fire on his cheeks made him kick all the harder.

"_GILBERT_!"

His foot connected with something, and Gilbert cried out, and after a moment of pained silence, he wheezed, "A-alright! Calm down."

Gilbert's hands grabbed the fabric of his shirt, and with one mighty yank, he was pulled out of his trap and fell back onto the alley street with a dull thud. Gasping for air, he looked up at Gilbert, who stood above with a leer, despite the wince of pain as he rubbed his stomach. No doubt, Ludwig thought with a smug sense of self-satisfaction, that _that _was what he had kicked.

"You bastard," Gilbert said, as he held out a hand, "You got me pretty good."

Narrowing his eyes, Ludwig pulled himself up to his feet, swatting away Gilbert's helping hand irritably.

"That's what you deserve."

"What in God's name where you doing?"

He fell silent, and, deciding that getting Gilbert involved further in his matters was not necessarily a good idea (more so at the possibility that he had unknowingly caught the attention of a Russian spy (or, worse, mafia)), he threw his hand in the air carelessly.

"I thought I'd go exploring. What's it to you?"

Gilbert raised a hand to his chin thoughtfully, and then shrugged his shoulder. "Alright. Got spooked, huh?" He laughed, and brushed off his sleeves primly. "I can't blame ya, I guess. Everyone's first time is scary." Then he took a step forward, and threw an arm around Ludwig's shoulder, pulling him in. "Never thought I'd see the day when you and me were partners in crime! I'm proud of you, you know?"

Ludwig tensed in his embrace, Gilbert's words stinging more than the cut on his arm, as the part of him that still sought desperately to abide by the rules felt offended.

"That's the problem," he muttered, and Gilbert's smile grew.

"Give it time. I look forward to more adventures with you."

"Don't count on it," he snipped, and pulled himself away, turning his back as he tried to flee. He had to get out of here. It was getting late, and once Roderich heard the news, he would no doubt come over in a hurry to tell him...

"_Hey_!"

But then strong hands grabbed his upper arms, and yanked him back, and he found himself slammed back into the wall with fervor. Gilbert was staring at him in what could have been surprise, as though he could not understand why Ludwig was suddenly leaving.

"Where are _you _going?"

"Home!" he cried, in annoyance and uneasiness, "Before Roderich notices I'm gone! God, if I'm not there when he gets back-"

Unmoved by his concern, Gilbert only raised a hand and wagged a finger condescendingly in Ludwig's face, murmuring cheerily, "Ah ah _ah_..." His smile turned into a leer. "I did something for you. Something very, _very _illegal for you. Now...you have to do something for _me_. Or did you forget our little bargain? I know that _my _end of the deal was kept up..."

Oh, right. He had forgotten...

"What do you want?" he asked, raising his brows nonchalantly, although the sudden hammering of his heart in his chest gave away his nervousness. Who knew what the hell was slithering through Gilbert's unpredictable mind. Surely, this was the very definition of making a deal with the devil.

"That's a good question." Gilbert eyed him, shifting this way and that as he studied him. The wait was both thrilling and unnerving, knowing that he was no longer in control of this situation, and when Gilbert leaned in and murmured, "I think a kiss, would do it," he felt faint.

"I can't say that your performance has earned that," he said, keeping his voice steady and calm even though his hands were shaking.

"That's funny," Gilbert replied, closing the distance between them and pressing Ludwig firmly back into the wall, "I wasn't really asking, so much as saying." His shoulder blades digging into the stone wall was uncomfortable, and he tried to push away, but Gilbert held strong.

"_Gilbert_," he began, in warning, but his threat was cut short when Gilbert's hands flew up from his arms and entangled painfully in his hair, and his head was ripped down to Gilbert's height as a pair of relentless lips suddenly assaulted his own.

He froze up, and Gilbert used the opportunity to pull him in further, grinding their bodies together. An adventurous tongue thrust into his mouth eagerly brought him out of his stupor, and his unfocused mind thought randomly and absurdly that the cologne Gilbert used was pleasant. Earthy, and sultry.

Gilbert pressed himself against him, and he was expecting the same sort of mechanical reactions that he had had when Roderich had all but done the same, but there was something different about this, and without even realizing it he had raised his hands to Gilbert's shoulders. But then again, this was not an easy comparison; Roderich had been sweet and gentle, unsure of himself and with a mind of his feelings, nervous. But Gilbert was aggressive and not so gentle, full of confidence and authority, and he took what he wanted without a mind of the consequences.

He should not have found such a personality attractive.

Reckless. Brash. Foolhardy. Unreliable at best. Uncontrollable at worst. Lawless. Careless. Everything he had striven his whole life to avoid becoming.

He should not have found it attractive...

It had been a minute, or maybe it had been ten (who knew?), when Gilbert finally pulled back, and he was able to regain control of his body.

"I'm glad we finally see eye to eye," Gilbert breathed, hands running through his hair and down his shoulder, and the burning fire in his veins suddenly frightened him.

This was not right.

"This was a one time event," he whispered, and tried to pull away from Gilbert's roaming hands, feeling a horrible wave of regret wash over him, as he remembered, with a pang of something that felt like disappointment, that he had all but been assigned by a twist of fate to Roderich. Not in so many words, of course, but the unspoken rule was still there, and when in a relationship, it was disgraceful to find oneself in the arms of another.

Even if his feelings for Roderich were barely more than platonic, the feeling was not mutual, and he was stuck, bound by honor and integrity. Two things Gilbert had little care for. How could he have even let it go this far? And worse, it was fully _his _fault, because Gilbert did not know...

"I have to go," he moaned, as he felt a sudden terrible urge to cry, but Gilbert refused to release him.

He hated this whole situation. Not only was he miserable, and a liar, but he was going to end up taking the others down with him when he finally fell. Roderich did not know about Gilbert. Gilbert did not know about Roderich. It was only a matter of time before his luck ran out, and they would clash... But how could he have ever known that he would one day find himself caught in the middle of something so torrid?

"Can't you stay with me today?" Gilbert whispered hopefully in his ear, and he finally broke away.

"I can't. I'm sorry." He backed away, caught under Gilbert's contented crimson gaze, and shook his head. "You have to forget this ever happened. There won't _ever _be anything between us."

He said it almost too emphatically, maybe more to convince himself, but Gilbert only shrugged a shoulder, unfazed by his words, smile still present. "If you say so!" His worry-free tone of voice gave away his confidence that _he _was going to have the final word on that. Ludwig shuddered. "Just follow the main street for a few blocks, and you'll find your way back on your own. Don't worry. The slow-ass cops haven't even come yet."

Ludwig turned, and as he fled in guilt, Gilbert cupped his hands around his mouth and cried after him, "_Hey_! Next time I blow some shit up for you I get to go to second base!"


	22. October 11, 1915

Chapter 21

**October 11****th****, 1915**

There had not been many things to be grateful for in this terrible, dragging year, nor the year before, and almost every corner that they had rounded had been hiding some new, awful surprise. Nothing but war, pain, suffering, and loss. Promises broken and trusts betrayed. Friends turned to enemies and sacred bonds dissolved.

And yet Roderich was certain that he could feel the tides of fortune shifting.

The war machine was gaining speed, swinging into full force, and he was increasingly confident in his abilities in the face of eminent victory. True, Austria-Hungary was not exactly the bringer of nightmares to the Entente, but, hidden securely and firmly behind the German Empire's might, there was no stopping the dual monarchy. The Russians could not keep their lines from breaking, the Italians surrendered too abruptly and almost randomly, and France and England could only do so much alone. America was reluctant to engage, Spain and Switzerland were unwilling to break neutrality, and Bulgaria...?

Smiling assuredly to himself, Roderich leaned back into the sofa, paper in hand, watching with contentment as Ludwig dusted off the fireplace mantle with a furrowed brow, mumbling to himself incoherently.

Bulgaria was as good as his. It was only a matter of patience now. He was certain that at any moment the word would come that there had been a solid agreement...

Things were going well. Work was steady and smooth, and although he had never been one to break professionalism, he could not stop the shameless grin that spread across his face every time he thought about that great British bastard getting blown to high heaven, nor could he help the giggles that burst forth at random intervals. He reached up to stifle himself with his hand as they threatened to come again, and Ludwig turned a curious eye to him as he shuttered side to side to control himself, on the verge of losing it.

Young Bosnia, at one point in time his most hated enemy, had suddenly become his ally.

He crossed his legs, as he held the newspaper in his hand and read the article again and again:

'_Young Bosnia members still at large after diplomatic bombing: British Empire demands action._'

Below the bold caption, a picture of Arthur Kirkland screaming at the media, singed and bruised and absolutely furious, snapped as he was being rushed to the hospital by bodyguards.

Maybe there _was _a God, after all.

He tittered, and tossed the paper aside carelessly, tucking his hands behind his head in satisfaction. Could things possibly get any better than this? There was nothing sweeter after a long day at work to come back to such cheery headlines. He tossed his head back haphazardly, and laughed.

Quirking a brow, Ludwig only shook his head in bemusement at his antics, and continued about his daily cleaning ritual with a singular mind. He did the same thing every day. First the bedroom, then the kitchen, then the living room. Dust, straighten, nitpick, dust a little more. It was both an annoyance and an endearment, and certainly a blessing, because Roderich had absolutely no desire for such menial chores.

And he liked to keep Ludwig occupied, if only for his own amusement (and perhaps benefit, because the more Ludwig had to do, the more willing he was to throw himself onto the couch and be embraced when he was finally done), and every day when he walked through the door, Roderich made a point of failing to wipe his feet, stomping onto the freshly cleaned floor with intent. Ludwig's dirty glares served only to fuel his mischief, and when the blond was busy wiping away his footprints he would spill his briefcase and tilt the painting above the fireplace, just a few millimeters. And when Ludwig popped back up and saw the papers strewn about the floor, he was always treated to some of the foulest obscenities known to man. Where had he learned those? Certainly not from him...

And although the oaths amused him greatly, he could not help but be surprised. He still thought of Ludwig as a ward, and it was with effort that he always forced himself to remember that there was no longer a child here. Ludwig was a man, and next year he would already be twenty years old.

Where did time go?

"I'm not picking that up," Ludwig suddenly said, and Roderich looked down at the newspaper he had just tossed down. "I'm sick of cleaning up after you."

Pfft. Indeed?

"_Alright_," he drawled, kicking off his boots under the German's intense, accusative gaze, "I guess it'll just sit there, then."

They both knew that it would not sit there, because Ludwig would not stand for it, and after a short staring contest, the blond huffed and knelt down, gathering the papers dutifully. He eyed Roderich's boots, and sighed.

"You jerk."

He smiled, and once he had risen to his feet, Ludwig caught sight of the tilted painting. He 'tsk'ed to himself, popping himself onto his toes and taking the frame in his hands with a look of annoyance.

"Why won't this damn thing stay put?" he grumbled, and Roderich arched his brows slyly. Ludwig hadn't caught on to _that _little sabotage yet. Maybe being in such a good mood recently had made him a little childish, but it was worth the mental laugh, and he loved sniping with Ludwig in a friendly setting.

"Maybe you should hang another nail to put it in place..."

"I'm gonna put _you _in place," Ludwig muttered darkly, and Roderich straightened up, combatively.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

"Oh, nothing."

"Yeah, that's what I thought," he countered, good-naturedly, and Ludwig's air of frustration began to evaporate. But then, he thought to himself with silent mirth, Ludwig could never stay angry at anyone for long periods of time. Gilbert proved _that _conclusively.

As Ludwig fiddled to straighten the frame, Roderich fell back, watching.

Ludwig's daily ritual may have been cleaning and cooking, but Roderich's ritual was to watch. Just watch. He observed every movement and fluid motion, usually under the guise of reading the paper, and knowing that he was now bestowed with the authority to interrupt Ludwig's sacred routine with a sudden word or touch was more empowering than any political victory.

He could, should he want to, take the duster from Ludwig's hand at any moment and throw it aside for more interesting ventures. He could, should he desire, tug Ludwig away from the stove in the middle of cooking to pursue less innocent matters. And he _could_, should he feel so inclined, pull Ludwig down from the chair that he used to reach the ceiling and order him to his knees. Not that he would engage in such illicit and lascivious acts, and the thought alone was enough to make him blush down to his cravat, but the knowledge that he _could _instilled him with more power than he knew what to do with.

He was grateful to be back in a comfortable environment, where _he _reigned supreme, dominant and confident and with the absolute final word.

There had been too many years of self-hatred and uncertainty.

Things were finally going back to how he liked them.

Now, all he could do was clutch onto it fiercely and hope that nothing else came along to turn the tables.

"There we go," Ludwig said from across the room, as he finally forced the painting to conform with his expectations of perfection. Taking a step back, hands on his hips, he studied the pale watercolor, and just when Roderich thought that he had gotten away with it yet again, he added, as though still speaking to himself, "If this goddamn thing tilts _one more time_, I think I'll just have to throw it in the fireplace and be done with it."

Holding his chin in his palm, Roderich furrowed his brow, and then said, "Well, I wouldn't hold my breath."

Ludwig sent him a stern look, and settled down on the couch, taking up a book from the end table.

Roderich had every intention of knocking it tomorrow, and Ludwig knew it.

"Would you really burn it?"

"Mm-hm," he responded absently, flipping the book open to a marked page and burying his nose as Roderich slipped an arm around his shoulders.

Oh well.

It was an ugly painting anyway.

On that, at least, they could agree.

But when Roderich's hand began to wander, coming to rest at the base of his neck with massaging fingers, Ludwig found that his agreeability was waning. Shifting, he cleared his throat, but Roderich had never been an expert hint-taker, and only continued his invasion of Ludwig's personal space. But then, personal space had been hard to come by for the past two months...

He tried to focus on the pages before him, but it was difficult, and when Roderich's breath came warm in his ear and lips brushed the line of his jaw, he closed his eyes and tried to zone out, the pink flush on his cheeks too warm.

He sat still, and quiet, and events were no longer in his control, anyway.

"Why don't you put the book down?" came the heavy whisper in his ear, and he shivered.

"I like this book," he breathed, trying to hang on to his last option, but when Roderich plucked the offending tome neatly from his hands, he knew he was had.

Cornered and pressed back into the sofa, he bit his lip and did what he felt was expected of him; he played along, falling into Roderich's firm embrace with false zeal, convincing himself that there was less pain in flowing with the tide than there was in honesty.

And then the phone suddenly (and _mercifully_) rang, interrupting their moment of unison with a shrill cry. They looked up and caught each others eyes, and, even though _he _was pressing _him _down, Ludwig could see that Roderich was still watching him expectantly, waiting for him to get up and answer the phone. Furrowing his brow, Ludwig shot him a burning, humorless look that all but said, '_despite _what everyone may believe, I am _not _your damn secretary,' and shoved at his chest.

Roderich, for once, took the hint and leapt to his feet with an almost sheepish expression, and took up the phone in his hand as Ludwig stared him down.

"Hello?" he rasped, and turned away, blushing terribly at his faux pas.

Satisfied, Ludwig used the opportunity to snatch back his book, pulling it up as he eavesdropped the best he could. He _deserved _to be nosy, for all he did.

"Oh?" came Roderich's voice over the silence, suddenly much more vigorous. "You don't say! That's..."

Lifting his eyes over the rim of the book, Ludwig took note of the exceptionally thin tone of Roderich's usually smooth notes, as though the Austrian were trying very hard to control himself, and he could not help but worry that something had backfired.

Christ, he could hear it now : '_Ambassador Edelstein, I'm sorry to inform you, but that German secretary that lives with you was spotted fleeing the scene of the attempted assassination of Ambassador Kirkland, along with an unknown male..._'

He shuddered.

But Roderich did not look over at him in sudden accusation, staring instead ahead at the wall as he began to shift his weight from foot to foot. Ludwig waited anxiously, and when Roderich finally said, "Thank you," and lowered the phone, he stood completely still for a moment, and then, in one of the most expressive moods that Ludwig had ever seen, he stomped his foot emphatically, crying, "I'm too _fuckin' good_!"

And then he rounded like a viper, grabbing Ludwig's upper arms with enough force to cause pain, ripping him to his feet as he pulled him into a fiery, bruising kiss. He could not help but gasp in surprise at gentle Roderich's sudden aggressiveness, and after a few minutes of the painful wrenching of fingers in his hair, they finally broke away. As Ludwig gaped at him, Roderich lowered his voice to a husky whisper and said, "Bulgaria just declared war on Serbia."

"H-_huh_?" he managed, dumbly, and Roderich broke into a sunny smile.

"Kirkland's offer fell through. I got there first while he was laid up, and the prime minister found my deal to be a little more to his taste." He raised his fist in the air in glee, and Ludwig fell back with a strangled smirk, suddenly feeling an adrenaline rush himself.

Well then. This had worked out far better than he could have ever dreamed. Knowing that he had not only outwitted Kirkland in the end, but also completely destroyed him, he felt the buzz in his chest and considered the possibility that maybe later _he _would have to kiss _Gilbert _for being so goddamn brilliant.

His heart raced.

Throwing himself back onto the couch in a fit, Roderich pounded his fist into the helpless sofa, crying, "Damn! I wish I could see Kirkland's face right now!" Clenching his fists to his chest, he stared into the fireplace, and murmured eagerly, "Please let him cry. Oh, _please_, let him cry. I want him to go back to England crying. Christ almighty, I hope they laugh him out of politics..."

As he blabbered to himself, Ludwig only smiled knowingly, as his speeding heart steadied, and thought to himself that perhaps the scales of who owed who were slowly tipping.

* * *

The next morning broke calm and clear over the still sleeping Varna, but Ludwig had been awake long before the sunrise, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee.

He was tired, despite having slept (most of) the night through, but certainly it was just a result of the past evening's antics. He could still feel the thrill of victory running through his veins, and understood Roderich's determination to come out on top all the time a little better. It was satisfying to conquer.

Unfortunately, Roderich's need to conquer had not been quelled with Bulgaria's entry into the Central Powers, but he had performed his midnight duties with patience and dignity, and this time maybe he had been a little more enthusiastic.

Egotism and victory were strange enablers.

He was no better for it now, though, sore and bruised, and the handprints on his arms were covered only by his shirt. He would have to be careful about those when next he saw Gilbert. Confrontations were best avoided. Especially volatile ones, and if Roderich was fire, then Gilbert was the fuse of a bomb, and if they met...

The thought alone was horrifying, and Gilbert always leapt before he looked.

With Gilbert in his head (and not just now, he knew guiltily, but perhaps the whole night) he was startled at the sudden, quiet knock on the door. Starting so hard that he nearly spilled his mug, he stared at the door with a quiet look of anxiety. Maybe he was just hearing things. His mind was still heavy with sleep...

But then the knock came again, and his eyes widened.

Oh God. Surely not...

Wrenching himself from the table, he scurried to the door, desperate to open it before it woke Roderich, _especially _if it was Gilbert. If Roderich saw him here! Without giving himself a moment of warning, he pulled the door open, and quickly felt a surge of relief.

It wasn't Gilbert.

His relief was short-lived, however, when he realized who it _was_.

"Oh," he began in surprise, and, narrowing his eyes with amusement, he balked in intentional exaggeration, "It's you! Silly me, here I was thinking you had gone and gotten yourself exploded..."

And sure enough, looking battered and run-down and, yes, even exploded, stood Ambassador Arthur Kirkland, dressed with a strange carelessness. In both attitude and clothes, and he looked up at Ludwig with bright, if not tired, eyes, cravat loose and hair uncombed, and Ludwig could see that a portion of his right brow had been burned away.

He felt a twinge of guilt, but pushed it aside.

"Can I help you?"

For all the grief he had caused, a singed eyebrow was far less than Kirkland deserved.

They eyed each other in mutual distaste, and then Kirkland smiled, more out of politeness than friendliness.

"That was a clever thing you did," he said, voice emotionless and low, and Ludwig bristled up in defense, knowing full well exactly what he was alluding to. "I admit you caught me by surprise. I had not expected you to respond with such, ah..._explosive _force." His smile grew, and the adrenaline ran through Ludwig's veins as warm as alcohol. If Kirkland had suspicions, would he act on them? Would he tell the police? Would he tell the papers?

Maybe so, but before God and Roderich he would go to his grave denying it.

"I don't know what you mean," he snipped, primly, crossing his arms above his chest.

Kirkland scoffed, and muttered, quickly and quietly, "Oh, come off it. Don't feed me that that bullshit. We both know you're too quick to play dumb." He turned a critical eye to Ludwig, looking him up and down, and he could feel his heart hammering in his chest. "The newspapers are claiming that it was Young Bosnia, but I'm not stupid, and I have no doubt in my mind that _you _were the one who stuck that bomb in my car. Or at least know who did. So... Who was it? Who did it? Come on. I just want to know, for curiosity's sake..."

Calculating his options, he could not help but feel that even though he was being harassed at his own doorstep, he still had the upper hand. After all, obviously Kirkland had no proof to back up his suspicions, even more so if the media assumed Young Bosnia was to blame. And there were no witnesses to his involvement, save for Gilbert, and Gilbert would go to hell and back before he spoke a word against him. Feeling secure in his position, Ludwig leaned into the doorframe and murmured, "You almost sound ungrateful. Strange; the only reason you're standing here right now is because of _my _good grace. I could have just killed you, you know."

Kirkland's emotionless face broke into a _real _smile, and he pulled his briefcase up to his chest as if to retrieve something. "I knew it," he hissed, and, as he undid the clasps, he added, "But you _didn't _kill me, did you? A smart assassin makes sure their target is dead. Not just scared. And you _didn't _scare me." With a wink, he threw in as a bonus, "And you didn't have to change your accent just for me."

He flushed, ignoring the jab. He spoke exactly the same as he always had.

...well, alright, maybe he had been putting an extra emphasis on the strength of his 'r's...

And maybe he had put a harder tone on his 'g's...

But his Berlin accent (or lack thereof, now) was not the subject of this conversation.

"I'm not an assassin," Ludwig said, pointedly, watching with interest (and perhaps nervousness), as Kirkland opened his briefcase. "I just thought I would lower myself to your level. How does it feel, to know that someone has done you over pretty good, and all you can do is sit back and watch? I imagine it's unpleasant."

The feeling for _him _was _extremely _satisfying.

"Actually, it's really shitty," Kirkland said, humorlessly, and suddenly produced a bouquet of pink and yellow flowers. He looked them over with a quirked brow, and when he was satisfied, he caught Ludwig's eye and added, in a cool voice, "But, I must say you have style. I don't think I could have pulled off a better sabotage myself, and I was in the MI5 for three years." He chuckled, running a finger along a large, bright flower as he studied Ludwig with mixed emotions. Certainly with curiosity, perhaps with a little hatred. "You know, there's an old saying in Poland : 'God, in His glory, created man, and the Devil, in His spite, created the German.'"

"Ah." Ludwig, uncertain of the situation but in a relatively good humor to play along, could only shake his head and mutter, "_Thanks_."

"Welcome."

There was a pause, and Kirkland suddenly started, as though he had been having an internal dialogue and had come to an abrupt conclusion. "Oh," he said, loudly, and shoved the flowers into Ludwig's chest, all but crushing them. "These are for you." He caught Ludwig's gaze evenly, almost sternly, and they stared at each other in an intense moment of silence, as loose petals of the abused flowers began to drift delicately to the floor. "I hope you like them," Kirkland finally added, as Ludwig took the bouquet into his arms, and his expression was so completely serious and somber that it was almost ridiculous. "I've never bought flowers for anyone before."

"Oh," Ludwig said, simply, and looked down at the folded flowers with a furrowed brow. They were pretty. Dahlias and chrysanthemums and daylilies, and... He squinted his eyes, and with a monotonous tone, he added, warily, "There's not a bomb in here, is there?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Oh."

The silence was heavy and awkward, and Ludwig shifted anxiously. It would have satisfied him greatly to simply the slam the door in the Brit's face, but he did not care much to be rude, even though he found his patience wearing thin under Kirkland's unreadable, scrutinizing gaze.

"...was that all?" he finally asked, and Kirkland shrugged a shoulder loosely.

"I guess so," he muttered, and took a step back.

As he took up his briefcase in his hand, Ludwig could not help but give in to his nagging curiosity, and even though he was not sure if he would get a straight answer, he asked, "Why are you giving me these?"

"Oh. Well," Kirkland began, seriously, "I was actually taking them to this cute little secretary back at the Japanese embassy, but I'm so impressed that you didn't lie to me that I thought...maybe you deserve them."

"Oh..." He looked down at the flowers, and knowing that in their crushed state it would be of no use to return them, he felt a bit of shame. "Sorry."

"Yeah, well... Good for you, I suppose, taking matters into your own hands. Kinda wish you hadn't totaled my vehicle."

"Sorry. Casualty of war."

"Indeed. Well, I should be off. I have to vacate the country now."

With that, he turned on his heel and stomped off energetically, mumbling to himself, and Ludwig heard him grunt as he went, "But damn! Was that girl cute! _Damn_! I hate Germans."

He smiled, and shut the door, feeling satisfied at this outcome. He set the flowers above the fireplace, and when Roderich awoke hours later, he passed through without even noticing them, having no eye for such details. Ludwig passed the day, content.

He would have been less content if he could have simply looked across the street and read Gilbert's ever-churning mind.


	23. November 7, 1915

Chapter 22

**November 7****th****, 1915**

The best laid plans...

_Why _in Christ's name had he even bothered to come here in the first place if he was only going to revert on his plan?

It had been three long goddamn months. He had only planned on being in this Godforsaken city for a week at most, and yet, Gilbert thought to himself in irritation, as he stalked back and forth across his small kitchen floor, he was still here.

He was _still _here, and it was starting to gnaw at his nerves, and his patience.

Granted, that little trick with the bomb was definitely worth at least two weeks of terrible monotony, but the rest of it was just overkill.

It was time to get the bags, get the blond, and get the fuck out of here, whether Ludwig wanted to or not.

And today was the right time, because, from his perch at his window, he had watched Roderich, briefcase in hand, leave at the break of dawn. No doubt he was going out into the city to discuss the more sensitive issues of war; price of ammunitions, price of soldiers, how much money Austria-Hungary was willing to pledge to the cause, etc.

Things that he had little interest in.

There was one thing, however, that had aroused his curiosity:

Ludwig had not gone with him.

He took up a spare cloth, doused it in chloroform, wrapped it in a piece of plastic, and tucked it in his pocket. Just in case.

The excitement was bubbling within him, and it was with great effort that he forced himself to wait until the clock struck noon, when the small embassy's secretary slipped out for lunch. As soon as he had rounded the corner, Gilbert made his move, scampering across the street and sneaking though the front doors with shameful ease.

And the locked door that led to the hallway where the ambassador's quarters were located was hardly more difficult to pass; one minute with a pick and the door had clicked open.

Thank God he didn't mean to cause harm, because this was just too damn simple. As he slunk down the hall, eyes on the lookout, he could only wonder how Roderich had taken to this less-than-secure building. Bitching and moaning, no doubt.

It wasn't anything like Vienna, that was for sure.

..._well_- (he could not help but titter) -maybe it was actually _better _than Vienna now. A dilapidated house usually trumped no house at all.

The memory of arson made him shiver, the thrill of animosity better than any act of kindness could ever be, and it was with a sloppy grin that he opened the door at the end of the hall. He paused for a moment in the threshold, and then he poked his head in, searching the room for signs of life. It would be better for everyone if he were to catch Ludwig off guard.

He shut the door quietly behind him, and as he stepped inside, his smile widened.

Ludwig was asleep on the couch in what was obviously an afternoon nap. Back to the door, he was curled on his side, long legs dangling off the edge, burying his face in the cushions. The fireplace crackled off to the side, bathing the room in a lazy warmth, and Gilbert could only lean against the door and shake his head.

This really _was _too easy.

The ways of waking up his erstwhile brother were many, each of them as pleasant as the last, but it may be prudent to get things in order first.

He moved slowly and silently (his specialty) and after snooping here and there, he found a small stash of Ludwig's items in the downstairs bedroom, tucked neatly away in the dresser. And as he tossed them carelessly into a bag, he could not help but think that Ludwig had brought very few belongings with him. Just two shirts, two pants, and one pair of boots? Odd. Especially since Ludwig never liked to wear the same clothes twice in a row, and laundry could not be done every day. He shrugged it off with a 'hm', and threw the bag over his shoulder, and he continued searching.

A few books on the shelf that he knew to be Ludwig's were tucked away, and before long they were joined with various items; a compass, a loose watch (Ludwig's? Roderich's? Who cared?), magazines, more books.

When he was finished, he had a pitiful two small bags at the kitchen door.

He had expected more.

As he ran his hand through his hair, slinking towards the couch, it did not occur to him that a good number of Ludwig's items could have quite easily been located upstairs in the master bedroom.

Approaching the sleeping blond, he leaned in, and for a moment, he was merely content to watch Ludwig's side rise and fall with deep breaths.

Oh, God, it had been so long since he had watched Ludwig sleep...

It was his own damn fault, and, in a rare moment of humility, he wondered if he was doing the right thing. And not for himself, as was often his first concern.

Maybe Ludwig was happier with Roderich, who could take him on all of these grandiose adventures across the map. Someone who was powerful and influential, who could bend the law to his will. Someone who had connections, and could ensure that Ludwig would have a place in society when he was old enough. Someone who could give him _anything_...

What could _he_ offer, when he found himself beside of Roderich's supreme authority?

He hesitated, unsure of himself.

Maybe Ludwig would be better off...

_After it's all done and over with... Please don't tell Roderich of what I did. It will break his heart._

Words from the past rushed to him as though on a wind, and he regained a sense of himself with a shudder.

No. Roderich had had his chance, and under his care Ludwig had been thrust into the middle of hell on earth, and had gone so low that he had been but a breath away from lying down and dying. This good-natured, gentle, honest, kind-hearted being that he had raised from childhood had almost been snuffed out of existence.

He would not let that happen again, and even if Ludwig could not understand how he felt, and even if Ludwig _hated _him for it later, it didn't matter; he would be safe in Berlin.

He could accept day, weeks, even years of bitter glares and unbreakable silence, if Ludwig were only safe and sound.

It would be worth it, in the end.

His smile returned, and he reached out with eager hands, running his fingers through Ludwig's loose, clean hair, taking up the platinum strands and observing them with a sharp eye. He had always liked the shade of Ludwig's hair; white-blond. Strangely soothing to look at. Like the sun.

Ludwig stirred beneath his touch but did not awaken, and, emboldened, he moved along.

First trailing the tips of fingers down the smooth skin of Ludwig's neck, taking his time, and then running his palm over one strong, relaxed shoulder, then down his arm, and in his mind, everything he was touching was being firmly labeled with his name; it was, after all, his.

_Ludwig _was his.

He had been his since the day he walked back through the door in Berlin, of his own free will, and whether he knew it or not was of little to no importance.

He would figure it out before long.

Because when Gilbert wanted something...

As his fingers walked down Ludwig's back, merrily, the blond suddenly inhaled, and raised one hand up, reaching over his back blindly.

"You're home early," he breathed, and his groping hand found Gilbert's with a warm grip, and for a moment Gilbert could only melt into the gentle touch with contentment. Ludwig's hand fit so well within his own, long fingers smooth and elegant and so deft...

But then the strange phrase that Ludwig had uttered finally hit him, and he narrowed his eyes in confusion -

_You're home early_

- and then he withdrew his hand from Ludwig's as though burned, pulling back so fast that he nearly fell backwards.

..._what_?

Shaking his head to clear it of the horrible flash of _something _that had lit up his mind, he furrowed his brow and pulled himself up to his full height. Something had gone down a strange road, and he did not like it. As a terrible dread that he could not quite place filled his chest like icy water, Gilbert abruptly cut his game short and reached out, and this time he smacked the top of Ludwig's head with considerably less tenderness.

"Ow!" Ludwig mewled, and, as he began to twist around, he cried, "What the _hell _was that for...you...jerk?" His voice died in his throat as their eyes locked, ice-blue with deep crimson, and the annoyance on Ludwig's face fled to make room for a much more readable emotion; horror. For a second he sat frozen, as Gilbert turned away and brought the bags that he had abandoned to the front door in an impromptu exodus, and then Ludwig managed to sputter, "G-Gilbert?"

"That _is _my name," he threw back, feeling suddenly annoyed and aggressive without knowing exactly why.

Something seemed so off, and there were pieces in his hands of a puzzle that he could not quite finish putting together. And Ludwig was always telling him half-truths, wasn't he, and evading simple questions... Always so nervous and shifty and maybe far more cunning than Gilbert had given him credit for...

But what was he hiding?

Why was Ludwig so unspeakably frightened of him sneaking around this embassy?

Not just for _Gilbert's _safety, of that much he was certain.

"How did you get in here?"

He ignored his inquiry, and clenched his fists at his sides as he turned to meet Ludwig's eyes.

"We're leaving."

The sooner, the better, and once he was back in Berlin he could try to put all of this nonsense behind him and stop worrying.

"Come on," he grunted, as he kicked a bag farther towards the door. "Get up." And Ludwig did, leaping from the couch so quickly that he nearly toppled over in his haste. "_Gilbert_!" he screeched, looking around the room with wide eyes of horror, as though he could not believe quite what he was seeing. "_What are you doing_?"

"I said _we're leaving_. I'm not saying it again. Come on."

But Ludwig stood still, and if he had not been so angry, he would have certainly have burst out laughing at Ludwig's harried appearance; dressed in only a thin button-up shirt and shorts, hair uncombed and sticking outward, socked feet, face flushed pink in either embarrassment or fright (or both), eyes bleary with sleep, it was clear that he had not intended on being interrupted.

"Get out."

His mood for games had gone, and it was with a dangerous seriousness that he reached up and grabbed Ludwig firmly by his hair, and dragged him to the door.

"_Get off of me, Gilbert_! What the fuck are you _thinking_?" he snarled, as he tried to unclench Gilbert's fingers, and it was only when Ludwig stomped on his foot that he let go, and Ludwig bolted for the staircase.

But Gilbert's reflexes were too fast, and his flight was cut short when a hand caught the back of his collar and yanked him back, and he threw Ludwig against the wall with stunning force. A temporary daze was all that he needed, and as Ludwig struggled for breath (alright, he had not meant to slam him so hard that the wind was knocked out him, but it was his own goddamn fault) he made it clear that there were only two options.

"Listen," he barked, as he grabbed Ludwig's upper arms and pinned him to the wall. "Either you walk out of that door, or I'm knockin' ya out, and _dragging _you. Pick one."

And he meant it. Brute force was not something he shied from, and the proof of it was before him, as Ludwig's chest heaved in the search for air. And finally it came to him, and he regained his voice.

"Alright, alright!" he wheezed, throwing his hands in the air as soon as Gilbert pulled back his fist threateningly, and with a defeated sigh he collapsed against the door. Gilbert regretted a bit that Ludwig was so easily bullied, but it was all the better for him. But then Ludwig shifted, and the look in his eyes was that of someone who was going efficiently from resistance to bargaining.

"Gilbert, listen to me for a minute."

It was no doubt going to be useless, but Gilbert humored him anyway, if only because he always felt badly after roughing the blond up, and he brought his hand up to grab Ludwig by the collar.

"I'm listening," he muttered, staring his younger counterpart down with unnerving intensity.

This had better be good...

But it was not the boring, lame plea that he had expected, and something suddenly changed in Ludwig's stance. His pupils dilated, he clenched his fists before him, and his voice was deep and husky as he whispered, "Gilbert, this war has just started..."

The light of excitement in the usually cool eyes made him shiver, and he suddenly forget all of his uneasy thoughts from before and leaned in, leering, "Yeah? Go on."

"Look at what we've done already," Ludwig breathed, and he leaned forward too, enthusiastic. "Bulgaria joined the Central Powers. _We _did that, Gilbert! _We're _the ones that blasted Kirkland into the air, _we're _the ones that stopped that meeting, and if we go back to Berlin, what are going to do? Read the newspaper? I can't just sit there and listen to the _radio_!"

He could not help the smile that was creeping over his face, and _God_, Ludwig knew how to stroke his wild side the right way...

"What are you saying, Ludwig?"

The blond was nearly bursting with excitement and hissed, "I'm going to stay with Roderich until the war ends. Think about it, Gilbert! We did _this_, we can do other things! I mean," he suddenly added, with a hint of seriousness, "I don't _condone _the method that you chose, necessarily, but, well, I have to say it was certainly effective, and God knows that sometimes drastic times call for drastic measures, and..."

He was blabbering now, and Gilbert closed in, feeling the warmth of exhilaration running through his veins. He knew what Ludwig was saying, but he wanted to hear it from his lips nonetheless.

"...if there's anything we can do to help end the war faster, then we should certainly consider it, and I suppose that-"

"Ludwig," he whispered, and now he grabbed the blond's collar with both of his hands, pulling him down to his eye level. "Say it. I want to hear you say it. Spell it out for me. Pretend I'm a blithering idiot."

Immediately, Ludwig's mouth shot open, and Gilbert interrupted harshly.

"Don't. Don't even. I know what you're thinking, you little bastard."

Ludwig's eyes narrowed for a moment, but it quickly passed, and he took a deep breath, and muttered, "Alright. Look. I..." His eyes darted around the room suddenly, almost guiltily, and he added, "I want you to help out."

"That's a little...ambiguous, don't you think?"

"Well, I mean, I want you to, _ah_, you _know_, help things along."

"...be blunt."

There was a sigh of exasperation, and Ludwig stomped his foot, hissing, "_Goddammit_, Gilbert! I don't want to go back to Berlin! I don't want to go back to Vienna! I want to get in the middle of _everything_, and I want _you _to come along and blow to hell _anyone _that even looks like they're with the Entente! Do you get it?"

He _did _get it, and could only shake his head in disbelief, as Ludwig's eyes bored into his own, and finally he breathed, "Well. That _was _blunt."

And as they stared at each other, Gilbert could barely believe that he was looking into the same blue eyes that had once gazed up at him in such awe, when he had come to the rescue on the cold streets of Berlin. The same eyes that had once shined with admiration, when they had splayed across the carpet, as he had helped Ludwig with his schoolwork. The same eyes, even, that had burned with such hatred when he had uttered those unforgivable words...

Where had that little stickler for the rules gone off to?

Because the man standing before him, so excited and fervent about his very first sabotage that he was literally bouncing on his heels, was certainly not looking to abide by the rules of war, already hopeful of other such ventures.

...maybe he really _was _a bad influence.

He furrowed his brow, and shook it off. He had been a bad influence from the very first goddamn day, there was no use denying it, so this new thirst for danger wasn't his fault.

War was the culprit, no doubt.

War changed everything, and besides, he would never understand the things that Ludwig had been subjected to out there in those muddy trenches, and if he wanted to try to end the war faster, then what was wrong with that?

"Alright. I'll come with you," he finally said, but before Ludwig could smile, he had thrown in, cheerily, "_If_..."

"If _what_?"

The suspicion and apprehension in Ludwig's voice was audible, and he loved it, because Ludwig was not alarmed by _anything_.

Except him.

"If you make it worth my while. I don't work for free. Remember?"

Ludwig squirmed beneath him in a moment of unease, eyes scanning this way and that, and Gilbert knew that he was searching for possible escape routes, for a way to get out of a sticky situation, like he always did. Between fight and flight, Ludwig would run to the end of the earth to avoid a confrontation if there were even the slightest possibility that he would come out on bottom.

But...

This time he would not be getting away. He had been lenient so many times. _Too _many times. Ludwig saw the determination in his eyes, and tensed, asking, lowly, "_What _do you want, Gilbert?

He paused, and wondered himself.

What _did _he want?

If he was seriously considering Ludwig's strange, albeit enticing, offer, then what was he to do now? Ludwig would stay put, and he would work on the sidelines, so there would no longer be the need to haul him off under cover. And he could not ask Ludwig for money; his world no longer revolved around money. He had no more need of drugs, now that Ludwig was near again.

Everything revolved around Ludwig.

All he wanted...

Reaching down, he slipped his hand into his pocket and after a second of fiddling, he gripped the damp cloth in his hand, and leaned up, bringing his face next to Ludwig's as he whispered, "You."

Ludwig, startled and fidgeting with nervousness, never saw it coming.

With the speed of a viper, he had, in one fluid motion, withdrew the cloth from his pocket and had pushed the cotton above Ludwig's mouth and nose, and there was only the briefest of struggles (in the midst of which an end table and a clock on the wall were brought down to the ground) before Ludwig's movements became weak and sluggish as the drug stunted his nerves. And when he collapsed against the wall, Gilbert removed the cloth and tucked it away, and pulled him over to the couch, resting him down.

He was still conscious, although barely, but that was the point; he wanted him awake, after all, just not enough to fight back. And what was wrong with that? Why should he have to struggle so even just to give Ludwig a hug? Ludwig did not trust him, so this was the only way to get in close proximity without risking injury.

Chloroform was surely man's greatest discovery.

"It's okay."

As he lay Ludwig down, the blond pushed feebly at his chest, and could only moan, "What are you doing?"

"It's alright," he assured, soothingly, as he sat on the edge and took Ludwig's hands within his own. "Don't worry, it's just a little... Just to calm you down. I just want to be near you for a while, is all..."

"Gilbert," he breathed, as he tried in vain to wriggle away, "Get...out. You have...to _leave_."

His voice was nearly a whine, a deep whisper with no substance, and he stopped struggling and his head dropped back when he lost all strength. Gilbert was upon him immediately, brushing aside his loose bangs with a gentle hand, crooning words of comfort in his ear.

Ludwig's fingers clenched and unclenched on his sleeve, as he struggled to stay in the realm of consciousness, with unintelligible mumbles and whispers and twitches. His bleary gaze was accusative, and maybe a little panicked.

"What...have you done to me?"

His chest heaved with deep, uneven breaths, and Gilbert wondered if maybe he had given him a little too much. It didn't matter; it would wear off, and hopefully he would remember afterwards.

"It's nothin', I said, don't worry about it. It's just to help you relax. You'll be as good as new in a few hours." Smiling, he leaned down and added, "But until then... I think I'll keep you company."

A moan of frustration was the only response, and he situated himself so that he was lying neatly against Ludwig (God, they fit so well together on this couch), half on top of him for space reservation, and everything suddenly felt warm and right, and Ludwig felt _so _good snuggled like this against his side...

"Do you remember," he whispered suddenly, breath warm in Ludwig's ear, "that day, when you came back home on your own?" Ludwig squirmed weakly beneath him, and finally managed to twist his head and look upwards, and when their eyes locked Gilbert carried on, confident that the blond was comprehending his words. "I was drunk, remember? And you got so mad at me... You didn't say it, but I could tell. I know that I drank too much sometimes, but once you left, I didn't know what to do. I never thought that you would _leave_! I never thought...that things would get so bad...between us."

He could not keep the sudden tone of regret from his voice, and Ludwig's blurry eyes seemed disheartened too, and he could not help but wonder if they could _ever _be happy.

"You lied to me, Gilbert," he rasped, and the words hurt him, "That's all you ever did, was lie..."

It was true.

But he didn't mean to cause harm. After all, his lies had always just been...

"I only wanted to protect you."

"The only person I ever needed protection from," Ludwig whispered, as he tried to pull himself away, "was _you_."

"No!" he cried, eagerly, pinning Ludwig in place, "I wouldn't ever hurt you! It's just that... Sometimes, when I'm alone, I think weird things, you know? Oh, Christ, sometimes I think maybe I'm goin' crazy or something, or maybe there's something wrong with me, but I just get so strung out. I lied to you so that you would stay, because when I'm around you I feel like... Like I'm normal. I can think clearer, see?"

Maybe he _was _crazy. There had always been a strange impulse in the back of his mind, a nagging desire, to go around and cause mayhem and chaos and to be right in the middle of it. Sometimes he longed to hurt someone, just because, and didn't he break the law on purpose just to prove that he could? He got enjoyment out of it, yes, but it was just a temporary high, gone as quickly as it came.

But...

When he watched Ludwig walking around lively and alert, and when he looked into Ludwig's tranquil eyes, and when Ludwig looked back at him and _saw _him, really saw him, the voice died down and he felt so sure about everything then. Calm. Happy.

He hadn't felt happy in so long...

Ludwig had been a God-send to him. He wanted that feeling back.

Below, something shifted in Ludwig's gaze, and he added, hopefully, "Don't you...feel any different, when you're around me? Don't you feel like you could be with me all the time?"

A long shot, maybe, but something had brought Ludwig back to him that day. Something had made him write that letter. And something was here now, wasn't it, because Ludwig had not told Roderich that he was here. Ludwig had not abandoned him yet, even though by all rights he should have.

"Oh, Gilbert, you just..."

"What?"

"I _can't_. I can't."

He had anticipated as much. But he still didn't _understand_, and, as he ran his fingers absently down Ludwig's neck, he murmured, "Don't you love me?

No response, and Ludwig turned his head away, gazing off into the fireplace absently. Gilbert took his silence as a positive, because in truth he had been expecting a prompt, 'go to hell'. Even so, it would have been better to hear the words that he wanted, because _God_, didn't Ludwig love him? He had said it when he was younger, hadn't he?

Why couldn't he say it now?

"You know," he began, as his mind began to wander down a different road, and suddenly he was yearning for something more than just this innocent contact, "you've really grown. I never knew you'd turn out to be so pretty."

And he was; Gilbert had never known anyone more beautiful than Ludwig. Even when he had been so awed at Erszébet in their youth, it had never felt like this...

He could barely breathe around Ludwig.

His hands were wandering, and Ludwig had started to shift anxiously against him. He could sense the discomfort and unease, and he sought to disperse it.

"It's alright."

"Gilbert, _stop _it," Ludwig hissed, as Gilbert's hand slipped inside of his shirt with smooth efficiency, and the atmosphere was quickly thickening. He tried to reach up and slap Gilbert's hand away, but his blow was scarcely more than a brush, as the chloroform suppressed any fluid movements he would have otherwise possessed, and Gilbert carried on with no hindrance.

One button was snapped open, and then another, and Ludwig's orders had changed swiftly to pleas.

"Please... Oh, Gilbert, please stop..."

Gilbert did not. Another button lost the fight, and then there were no more, and it was with an odd seriousness that Gilbert pulled open his shirt and exposed his chest to the air.

"_Stop_!"

"You don't have to shout," Gilbert breathed into his ear, hands creeping downward once the nuisance of a shirt had been defeated. "I'm right here." Was it wrong, he wondered to himself, if he loved the feeling of Ludwig squirming beneath him? He couldn't help but smile at the frustration on the younger's face. "Calm down. I'm not gonna hurt you... You're not really fighting, anyway, are you?"

"Gilbert, oh God, stop! _Please_, Roderich-"

"Won't be back until the evening. We're all alone..."

The hammering of Ludwig's heart in his chest gave away his nervousness at being caught in this snare, and it felt good to know that he had the upper hand for once over his almost too-clever counterpart. Ludwig had slipped out of his clutches for far too long.

The game was over.

He had won.

He reached out and took Ludwig's upper arms in a firm grip and pulled him up against the arm of the couch, keeping him steady, and even though Ludwig sent him his best glare, there was no stopping the fire in his veins. And, besides, Ludwig was even prettier when he was angry.

Without strength, Ludwig rested his head back, staring up at the ceiling with a furrowed brow, and Gilbert took advantage of his position to lean in, running an errant hand down the long neck before him. As he came ever closer, Ludwig met his gaze, and shook his head, once. A warning? He did not heed it, and it was with a sense of relief that he took Ludwig's face in his hands and pulled him into a fierce kiss, and with every second of it all of his strange thoughts from earlier were disappearing, as were his suspicions, because Ludwig was innocent and inexperienced in these matters, and there was just no way...

Whatever that flash had been in his mind, it had to have just been him projecting his own dishonesty onto Ludwig.

He twisted his fingers in Ludwig's hair, and fell into eternity, forgetting everything else, because suddenly nothing else mattered, as he pressed Ludwig back into the couch. There was only warmth and a tightening in the pit of his stomach as Ludwig moaned against him (mutual satisfaction? Or maybe he was pulling his hair too hard), and he broke away only for breath.

"I love you."

Ludwig did not respond, but even though he was still struggling, the flush of red on his cheeks and the dilation of his pupils were clear signs of his weakening will, and he shifted his hips uncomfortably. His chest heaved with the effort, and Gilbert could not help but be taken aback at the beautiful sight, as he felt that same strange burning in his chest as he had that day long ago in Berlin, when he had held an intoxicated Ludwig firmly in his arms and wished...

Back then, such a kiss from Ludwig would have been more than he could have ever hoped for.

What he felt now went beyond lust, beyond love, and maybe he was bordering on the fine line of obsession, but Ludwig was the reason he was still alive. Taking care of Ludwig was his only purpose in life.

Everything he ever did...

"Gilbert, don't do this..." Ludwig gazed up at him, with that pitiful look of helplessness, but it had started, and there was no stopping it, and Ludwig would just have to deal and roll with it.

A flash of cool air as he reached up and pulled his shirt over his shoulders, a moan as he fell against Ludwig's chest, the feel of Ludwig's smooth skin against his own, a rush of blood in his head, and when he pulled Ludwig back down and pressed him into the sofa, he ground against him, and there were no more protests.

He scraped his teeth against the line of a chiseled collar bone, and then something wonderful happened :

Ludwig heaved a great sigh, as though he had finally ended a long and exhausting inner dialogue, murmuring something that Gilbert did not quite catch, and then he reached up and wrapped weak arms around Gilbert's neck, and buried his face in the crook of his shoulder.

A simple act, but for Gilbert is was as though the sun had came out from behind the clouds without warning after a long storm, and it felt _so _good to be held for once in return... If he had died right then and there, it would have been alright, because he knew now, for sure.

Ludwig loved him, even if he couldn't bring himself to say it.

Ludwig had forgiven him.

Ludwig _needed _him.

Words were no longer necessary.

He returned the embrace with enthusiasm, and for the first time in his life, he could hold Ludwig in his arms as something more than just a surrogate brother.

Heaven opened up, and smiled on him, and Ludwig's heart beating so furiously against his own could be nothing less than a sign that fate was on his side, and everything came full circle, because hadn't he known on that day so long ago, on the streets of Berlin, that Ludwig was meant to be with him?

He freed himself from Ludwig's arms and fell back onto his knees, pulling off Ludwig's shorts with shaking hands and feeling for all the world as though he would faint from excitement.

As he struggled to remove his belt, he recalled those awful months when Ludwig had been in the war, and he had been so distraught and ready for death that he had roamed the streets hoping that someone would just kill him, and every so often he would find himself in a brothel, or in an alleyway, with a heavily-painted woman that meant absolutely nothing to him, or sometimes with well-dressed escorts. In drug-fueled delirium, they were all the same, and when he had had sex with them (just sex, it wasn't even _fucking_, because fucking would have at least implied that there was some enjoyment) he thought of nothing except Ludwig. He had felt nothing. Just basic needs fulfilled with mechanical motions, no passion.

He had never felt adrenaline in his veins, nor warmth in his chest.

And he had lied, stolen, swindled, pick pocketed, tricked, deceived, manipulated, destroyed, incinerated, trespassed, _murdered _- but through it all he had never felt more alive than he did now, as he collapsed heavily onto Ludwig, the feel of his bare skin beneath his own more thrilling than any chase or break-in could ever be.

Ludwig was warm and passive below, clinging to his neck as though his life depended on it, and oh _God_, he felt _so _good...

There was no longer the world outside, or the war, or the long journey both behind and ahead; there was only Ludwig. Only his breath warm in Gilbert's ear, his smooth skin beneath Gilbert's hands, and in a moment of triumph that he could never possibly hope to express in words, he reached down and forced Ludwig's long legs apart.

Everything was lost in a flurry of heat and a rush of blood, and some part of him was vaguely aware that he had grabbed Ludwig's thighs and lifted him up, up, and somewhere along the line he remembered spitting in his hand, and positioning himself on his knees.

And then he remembered hardly anything, falling completely into a bliss that he had never even known was possible, let alone _felt_, and when he pressed forward Ludwig entangled his fingers in his hair and arched upward.

He could not say how long it lasted; surely it was hours, but it felt like only fleeting seconds. He lost himself, and his hands moved of their own accord, grabbing Ludwig's hips with fervor, bruising his arms and his legs, and when he pitched forward and sank his teeth into Ludwig's neck, a deep moan was his reward. As they rocked together Ludwig started whispering in his ear, and even though his mind was too muddled to understand the words, he could _feel _them...

Love.

He never thought that anyone would ever love him.

His pace deepened when Ludwig's hands went down to his waist and drew him in so close that he could not even pull back an inch, and they melded into one, and he could feel a tight burn in the pit of his stomach as Ludwig's breath hitched in his throat and he suddenly quivered beneath him, and the tightening around him was too much.

A white-hot flow of blood, a flash of dancing lights before his eyes, and then he collapsed on top of Ludwig, panting to catch his breath as his heart hammered so hard that he thought he might die.

The air was heavy, and suddenly cool as the fire in his veins dulled.

They lay there after, Gilbert's head rested on Ludwig's chest, breathing heavily and shimmering with sweat, and Ludwig ran his fingers through Gilbert's damp hair with an almost melancholy gentleness. He longed to reach up, and stroke Ludwig's cheek and tell him that now they were connected forever and that there was nothing ahead but happiness and that he _loved_ him like no one else ever could, but such sentimental words could never seem to find their way out of his mouth, and he was too stunned to move.

But it didn't matter.

There would be more opportunities to find ways to speak his mind.

Hours passed, the sun moved lower onto the horizon, and it was only when the fire died that Gilbert forced himself to get moving, because time was not unlimited and Roderich would surely be home soon.

God, the thought of it was enough to make him sick.

He did not want Roderich to be around Ludwig. Not now.

It was probably silly, and it was certainly selfish, but leaving Ludwig alone with another single male was enough to make his head spin.

He was jealous, maybe...

But, he shrugged it off, Ludwig would _never_...

Not with _Roderich_!

...no, there was no way.

Once he had pulled on his clothes, and forced Ludwig to allow him to do the same to him, smoothing and straightening his shirt with the brotherly care that lingered from days gone, he wrote off one successful day and planned for the next one.

He made certain that Ludwig could stand properly, and put back all of the belongings that he had tried to haul off before in their rightful place. The least he could do, he supposed, and as he backed up to the door in retreat, he grabbed Ludwig's hands up within his own and said, huskily, "I'll come back tomorrow."

Ludwig's brow came down, as though he would retort, but then he bowed his head and nodded, slowly.

Gilbert's heart soared at his compliance.

"You could help me out and leave the door unlocked, you know."

Another dumb nod, and Ludwig stared at the floor, as though dazed. Gilbert pulled him into a tight embrace, oblivious to his suddenly strange mood, and then turned on his heel and slipped out of the building as quietly and efficiently as he had slipped in.

As he crossed the streets, the cold wind on his face, he walked tall and proud, and felt the changing of the tide.

He felt complete.

He felt alive.

He felt _loved_.

He wouldn't let it go. He would never leave Ludwig's side again.

...and _no one _would stand between them.

No one.

* * *

No one.

..._no one _could ever know.

He felt numb.

He felt used.

He felt _stupid_.

How could he have given in so easily to Gilbert? How could he have allowed himself to be pulled into this tryst? How could he have been so _weak_?

Worse...

How could he have betrayed Roderich so?

Burying his face in his arms, Ludwig tossed and turned in his bed, regretting and lamenting and fretting, as his stomach churned with guilt. Christ almighty, a few pets and brushes from Gilbert's hands and he had been molded into complete subissiveness. What had he been _thinking_? God, he _hadn't_ been thinking! Because he would never have spread his legs for Gilbert like some common whore if he had been in his right mind. But it was too late now. Everything had changed, hadn't it? It was his fault, but there was no turning back from it, and Roderich would be devastated if ever he knew...

He could _never _know.

Night had long since fallen over the sky, and he had spent the entire evening planning how he would act when Roderich finally came back through the door. He would try to go on as normally as possible, but if Roderich suspected anything, anything at all, he was certain that he would crack under pressure, he was so guilty. He hated lying. He hated that he was no better than Gilbert.

He longed to sleep, and, as the effects of the drug were clearing from his system, it should have been easier than ever, but it just would not come.

His mind was reeling, and the _worst_ part...?

The worst part of it all was that, behind all of his guilt and disgust at himself, there was a nagging sense of euphoria. A strange longing was hovering over him, and he hated himself for it but, Christ, if Gilbert came back over right now and crawled in through the window, he would do nothing else but than to fall into bed with him and go straight to sleep.

Something had to be wrong with him, then.

Why else did he yearn to walk in the dangerous night with Gilbert, when Roderich was at his side, bathed in sunlight and security?

He had never been a thrill seeker.

So, something had to be wrong with him.

Why couldn't things be easier? Being caught in the middle like this was even more dismal than the trenches of war. At least there he knew on whose side he stood.

Someone was going to get hurt.

The clock ticked on, and he had nearly overcome his restlessness and was beginning to drift into sleep when he heard a soft click from a door, and then gentle footsteps up the stairs.

Roderich was home.

He tensed his shoulders and buried his face into his pillows, pulling the covers up to his chin, trying to fake sleep. The nausea in his stomach was intensifying as every footstep fell closer, and by the time Roderich had slipped inside and the shuffle of changing clothes filled the silence, the guilt was overwhelming.

"Hey..."

The mattress shifted, and Roderich was suddenly at his side, warm and heavy, falling into him and breathing deeply, "Are you asleep?"

"No," he whispered automatically, and shuddered as Roderich's smooth fingers caressed his bare shoulders, gingerly.

"That's good," he whispered, and pressed closer, nuzzling the back of Ludwig's neck with fervor. "I thought today would never end." He shivered as Roderich fell above him more forcefully, elegant fingers falling from his shoulders to his sides, tips brushing the band of his pants. The air was thickening rapidly, and he allowed Roderich to do as he pleased, as he always did, even though he knew that this time it was wrong.

"I missed you..."

But when he was rolled gently onto his back and felt Roderich's smooth hands running down his chest, he could not help but remember Gilbert's hands, and how drastically different they were; rough, and possessive. Not so gentle.

And God help him...

He had loved the feel of Gilbert's hands.

The thought was too much, and he suddenly reached up, pushing at Roderich's chest as he tried to sit. Immediately, Roderich fell back onto his knees, asking, "Are you alright?" His voice was soft, and concerned.

Another drastic difference between him and Gilbert.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and this time he managed to lie, "It's just... My head hurts. I didn't feel so well, today."

"Ah," Roderich said, always so easily deceived, and he leaned forward, running the back of his palm against Ludwig's forehead. "I had wondered why you were in bed so early today. You feel a bit warm. I'll bring you some medicine."

He opened his mouth to protest, but Roderich was already on his feet, and when he came back a minute later, Ludwig took the pills and swallowed them dutifully, knowing full well that the burning on his face was that of shame.

Not fever.

"Get some sleep."

He laid back, staring up at the ceiling as Roderich flipped onto his stomach and reached out, throwing an arm fondly over his chest.

"Goodnight."

"Night," he murmured, heart hammering with sickening thuds.

What had he gotten himself into now?

Beside him, Roderich fell asleep quickly and heavily, as those with clear consciences so often do, but Ludwig did not sleep, feeling cheap, and dishonorable.


End file.
